


The Train to Nowhere

by MayMarlow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 292,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayMarlow/pseuds/MayMarlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Voldemort's victory brought forth the golden age of pureblood supremacy, young Harry - an average Durmstrang student - grows surrounded by the same propaganda that has become the gospel truth of the Wizarding World. Injustice is a norm and racism is not only accepted, but actively encouraged. Embracing the status quo becomes harder when Harry finds himself in a train station where the living should not dwell, and a dangerous friend who goes by the name "Tom".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Why is mum _always_ so strict anyway?" Harry Potter, 8 years old, asked sullenly.

"She's just worried about you," James Potter, Harry's 31 year old father and current jailor, replied evasively. "You shouldn’t have told Arthur’s son that there’s a spider in his hair. You know he’s afraid of spiders. It was mean.”

"But you laughed," Harry said knowingly. "I _saw_ you. Uncle Sirius laughed too. And loudly. Besides, Ron said that I cheated in chess. And even if I did, it still doesn't mean that he should accuse me. Mum is being unreasonable. How is grounding me going to help?"

"Harry," James said, fighting down the urge to smile. "In this life, you can't go on making enemies. Why can't you and Ronald just play nicely?"

"We do."

"Only when the Snide Sisterhood is here for you to gang up on Junior.”

“Mum doesn't like it when you call the Malfoys that," Harry pointed out. “It's because they're a _respectable pureblood_ family. Which we're not." James sighed heavily, feeling both sad and frustrated.

“Harry,” he said. "Lily is a tad sensitive about the fact that she isn't, well, a pureblood. Her parents were Muggles, as you know. But that doesn't mean that you are any less of a wizard than Draco Malfoy or Ronald Weasley."

James fully believed in what he said, and he could only hope that someday Lily would come to see things this way as well. It was unlikely however, as even though he himself had never been one to think much of blood purity, most people thought of it far too much. Their world, their _society_ , was built on power, fortune and purity of blood. And while the Potters had power and fortune enough to rival the oldest Families, James's choice to marry Lily had taken away their status as a solely Pureblood family.

The Dark Lord, their supreme ruler, had been the one to establish their society as it was. People adapted to live accordingly, but there were still some rebels roaming the grounds, speaking of unity with Muggles and calling the Dark Lord a murderer. Which he _was_ , but, well... after the war and the still ongoing battles... who _wasn't_?

"I didn't mean to make Ron cry," Harry admitted after a long moment of silence, "Not really."

"So you'll say sorry," James said, relieved to solve the problem this easily.

"No," Harry denied with a shake of his head, "I'm being _punished_. It's _either_ I say sorry _or_ get punished. You can't have _both_ , Daddy."

"Right," James muttered, unsure of what to do. Lily was _so_ much better than him at this 'negotiating with Harry' business. "How about you have a nap now, and—"

"Mum says I can't have naps anymore because then I'll stay up all night," Harry said wisely, "And it's not even six yet."

"Your son is a smartass," a new voice declared, and the two Potters turned to see Sirius Black standing in the doorway of Harry's bedroom. The man's black robes were dirty with mud and the white mask he was holding was cracked.

"You look like you got caught up in a battle," James noted, standing up, "Are you okay?"

"Bruised, but nothing more," Sirius replied, grinning at Harry. "Hi, Harry!"

"Hi, Uncle Sirius," Harry said. "What's smartass?"

"How about we go to the library and you'll tell me what sort of fight you were caught in?" James rushed to cut in; Lily would _kill_ him if she came back home from work only to find out that their young child had learned something she would definitely dislike. "Harry..."

"I'll stay here," Harry lied, wide green eyes staring up at his father innocently. "I'll take a book and read."

"Good boy," James approved and left the room with Sirius trailing right behind him. Harry waited for a few long minutes before sneaking after them.

Harry, the only child of the Potters, wasn’t a particularly special child. Most people tended to forget him as soon as they weren't looking at him. It used to be slightly upsetting, but Harry had learned to accept it – it gave him the freedom to do what he wanted most of the time. The only person who seemed to be _constantly_ aware of Harry's movements was his mother, whom Harry was sure, had eyes in the back of her head.

Harry's father was an Auror – an occupation that was not as glamorous as Harry had thought at first. From what he had heard, it included mostly travelling around the world doing something that made his mother look increasingly worried every day. Lily, Harry's mother, was a healer specializing in spell-induced serious muscle injuries. It was gross and Harry hadn’t wanted to know anything about it beyond that. Being a healer was a job that kept her busy most days and even some nights, but Harry didn't really mind. He used to miss his parents a lot, but now he was pretty used to this.

Silently the boy crept through the hallways towards the library room, and slipped in, quickly hiding behind the shelves.

"...said that all Mudbloods should be killed, but that's just _insanity_ ," Sirius was saying, "So we duelled a bit and that's it."

"Carrow was always a bit off," James said in response. "Just don't tell Lily about this, she's overly sensitive about her blood. You know how she is."

"Yeah. You know, I can't say I like muggles. They're like an unknown species to me. But man, a witch is a witch in my book, heritage be damned. Lily is one of the best witches I’ve ever known!"

"Thanks. I'm just worried about Harry, though."

"How so?" Sirius asked, sounding concerned. "He's okay, isn't he?"

"Sometimes, I just feel that he's... I don't know. Like Lily, feeling inferior due to his blood," James admitted hesitantly, and in his hiding place Harry flushed with shame.

"Harry's got nothing to worry about," Sirius scoffed, "Being a half-blood is the _thing_ nowadays, considering that the Dark Lord himself is one. The beau monde approves and adores... at least on the surface."

"People don't talk about that!" James hissed, "Honestly, Sirius! For a Death Eater, your lack of respect is ridiculous. Nobody talks about the Dark Lord's past, you know that!"

"Calm down, James, I'm not going to join the rebels even if I crack a joke every now and then." Harry could then hear the sound of a smack and a pained groan, followed by a short bark of a laugh.

"There's so much going on nowadays," James said after a short moment of silence. "Politics, economy... ten years ago, everything was so different!"

"Don't think of the past," Sirius advised. "Just focus on your family and make the most out of this life. And steer away from the rebels. They're nasty. The more we capture, the more insane they seem to have become."

"They see Dark wizards everywhere," James agreed gloomily, "and refuse to listen to common sense. The Dark Lord is right to demand their deaths."

"It's not really a matter of right or wrong," Sirius said with a shrug. "The Dark Lord ordered it, so it'll happen. Right and wrong are just labels attached afterwards."

"Some would curse you for your words."

"But not you."

"No," James admitted quietly, "Not me."

*

Harry remained sitting in his hiding place behind the shelves long after his father and godfather had left. The library was dark and rather cold, and the stone floor wasn't comfortable for Harry to sit on, but he simply didn't have the will to move right then. He was feeling restless. Anxious. As if something bad was about to happen and he'd be in trouble.

But most of all, he was feeling _lonely_.

It wasn't that Harry didn't have any friends, he _did_. Ron Weasley, the youngest son of the Weasley Family, was a good friend even if he was quite annoying at times. Draco Malfoy was a ponce, but a nice ponce sometimes and his snide remarks were always priceless. The occasional arguments aside, Harry considered them both to be friends of his.

So no, the loneliness didn't come from not having friends at all. Rather, it was the absence of a certain type of friends that made him feel lonely. He wanted a best friend. Like his dad has uncle Sirius and Draco had Theo Nott.

 _'I guess I'm more like mum,'_ Harry thought then. Lily didn't have friends. Lily didn't seem to want or need friends. She was friendly, yes, but also a bit distant with everyone excluding her husband and son. _‘I don’t think she has a best friend either.’_

Sighing tiredly, Harry finally stood up to leave. With any luck his dad still thought that he was reading, and would let Harry fly for a little bit today, even though it was quite late already. Feeling hopeful, Harry turned to head towards the door, when something caught his eye.

A book.

It was partly hidden by several other dusty books, and yet somehow it seemed to stand out on its own. Harry pulled the book off the shelf to see it better, and grimaced at the sight of the worn and blotchy leather covers that carried neither a title nor an author’s name.

"Master Harry," a slightly squeaky voice said behind him, startling the boy. Harry hastily shoved the book back into where it had been before turning to see a house-elf staring at him. “Master James is requesting Master Harry be in Master Harry’s room.”

"Thank you for the reminder, Vurney," Harry said, wondering what his father would want from him now. "I’ll go. Did dad seem angry?"

"No, Master Harry," the house-elf replied, and Harry felt a wave of relief. He then dismissed the house-elf before leaving the library and making his way towards his bedroom, where he saw his father. Despite what the house-elf had said, the man did look a little bit annoyed.

"Where were you?" James asked as soon as Harry entered the room. "Didn't you say that you had a book you wanted to read?"

"I was bored," Harry replied, sitting down on his bed and not elaborating further on where he had been. "Did Uncle Sirius leave?"

"Yes. He has... work. It's getting late, are you hungry? You should be in bed and asleep already. Lily will be home tomorrow morning, so let’s both sleep now and wake up early to welcome her back.

"Not hungry. Not sleepy," Harry claimed and ended up a moment later hiding a yawn behind his hand. James smiled fondly and moved to pull out Harry's pyjamas. “I want to say welcome to mum when she comes back.”

"You will. Now, change into these and brush your teeth. Do you want a bedtime story?" James asked, watching over Harry while the boy did as told.

"Unh," Harry nodded, "Something cool. Draco says that his father has seen the Dark Lord. Have you seen him too? Did he say anything to you? What does he look like?"

"Anything related to the Dark Lord hardly counts as a bedtime story," James said dryly, "You should stop listening to what Draco says, Harry."

"Tell me about Hogwarts, then," Harry ordered, "I'll be going there in a few years, won't I?"

"Maybe," James replied, "Hogwarts is probably the most beautiful place I have ever seen"

"Uncle Sirius says that snivellus is a blemish in Hogwarts," Harry cut in, blinking sleepily, "What's a snivellus?"

"Snivellus is, er, a nickname. Of a person. A man. His actual name is Severus Snape."

"Is he a Death Eater too? Are you?"

"He is, I’m not," James sighed. "All those who carry the Dark Mark – a sign of loyalty gained during the Great Purge – are Death Eaters. Very few are marked nowadays. Exceptional people. People who achieve great things on the battlefield.”

"Like heroes? War heroes?" Harry mumbled, eyes already closed. James swallowed and his lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"Yeah," James said. "Heroes."

*

Harry woke up to the sensation of someone running their fingers through his hair. He could smell the faint scent of lavender and knew that it was his mother, sitting by his bed. With a smile, eyes still closed, Harry rolled closer to where she was sitting.

"You're home," the boy sighed happily.

"Did you miss me?" Lily asked fondly. "Come on, sweetheart. It's time to wake up and start the day. Did you do anything productive yesterday?"

"Not really."

"Then how about you go with me later on to the library? We'll pick good books to read and have a nice evening together."

"I was supposed to wake up before you came back, but I couldn’t,” Harry pouted, finally blinking his eyes open. He looked up at his mother whose hair was redder than he had remembered and eyes as green as his own. "And which book would I read? I don't want anything boring. Can't we go out instead? To Diagon Alley or something? And _buy_ new books?"

"Some other day," Lily promised. "I have a bit of paperwork to do. If you don’t want to get something from the library, we could find you something else. I received a collection of essays from a friend and one of those essays is about Hogwarts—"

"What're the others about?"

"It's rude to interrupt, Harry. Don't do it again."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, peering up at his mother warily, before speaking again. "What're the other essays about if only one is about Hogwarts?"

"Other schools," Lily replied. "Salem, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons... There are about a dozen magical schools in the world."

"I've heard of Durmstrang," Harry said. "Draco says it's the best school and that he wants to go there but that his mum wants him to attend Hogwarts. Why is Durmstrang better than Hogwarts? Why did you and dad go to Hogwarts if Durmstrang is better?"

"Durmstrang has the reputation of teaching Dark Arts, and it does not admit Muggle-born students," Lily explained quietly. "It's also said to be the school the Dark Lord occasionally visits and picks up potential Death Eaters from."

"Can I go there?" Harry asked, "To Durmstrang, I mean. Is it pretty? Dad says that Hogwarts is the prettiest school."

"I have never been there," Lily said gently. "If you attend Durmstrang, baby, won't you be lonely? As far as I know, all your other friends will be going to Hogwarts."

"But if Durmstrang is _better_..."

"It's too early, either way, for you to think of school."

"But!"

"When you turn ten," Lily said, "I will... _James_ will take you to see Durmstrang and a few other schools, and then you'll get to pick which one you want to enrol into. How does that sound?"

"That's too far away," Harry pouted, and his mother snorted before giving her only son a loving look.

Back then, things were perfect.

Back then, things were _normal_.

*

By the time Harry turned ten he had forgotten all about his mother's promise. His birthday party wasn't extravagant and he hadn't asked for other children to be invited - his friendship with Draco and Ron had mellowed out during the two years and it had been _months_ since he had even left the house.

James and Lily were slightly worried, but they couldn't exactly _force_ him to spend time with other children if that made him unbearably uncomfortable. The only one to be invited was Sirius who, despite his loud and obnoxious entrance and the pile of brightly wrapped gifts that he levitated behind him, was just as worried.

"He's lonely," Sirius whispered to James later on. "I can _see_ it, James."

"There really isn't much I can do," James sighed in response. "He doesn't _want_ to spend time with other kids. We’ve tried to make him, but he just… it doesn’t go well at all."

"Maybe you should sign him up for a hobby?" Sirius suggested.

"Like what? All he does is read and fly when the weather is good."

" _Read_? He's not becoming a Lily-clone, is he?"

"Hardly," James scoffed. "Lily loved science. Harry loves stories and fairytales. Potions, magical theory, herbology; he's got no interest in those. But give him that stupid Beedle Bard book..."

"I remember that book," Sirius smiled. "I loved it – still do, actually. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. I used to transfigure the covers to look like Charms text books.”

"Good old days," James said, "Remember Dumbledore?"

"Who doesn't?"

"He used to be against the Dark Lord. We all thought he had a chance of defeating him, in the beginning."

"You know," Sirius sighed with a contemplative expression on his face. "This world could very well be different had Dumbledore not died at the end of our fifth year."

"He was a good man," James said. "Idealistic and foolish, perhaps, but also powerful and kind."

"I didn't much talk with him," Sirius said. "Once, when we went to talk to him about— well, remember that werewolf boy we discovered in our third year? What do you think happened to him?"

"Probably dead. I still can't believe that Dumbledore let a werewolf live in Hogwarts and pretend to be a human."

"Well, he let Snivellus in, too, and there's _no way_ that slimeball is all human. There's got to be a bit of a slug in his ancestry."

"That's too disturbing for me to think about," James declared, though he couldn’t quite keep a straight face. "Although I can't really say that I disagree."

"Do you _actually_ know what happened to him?"

"Snape?"

"No, you idiot. The werewolf. Do you really think he’s dead?"

"If he’s lucky, then yes. If not, then he was probably sent to one of those werewolf humanization camps."

"What did you give to Harry?" Sirius asked then, after a moment of silence while watching his godson at the other side of the room. "Wish I could give him a friend. I bought him pretty much everything else instead."

"Lily said that she wants Harry to go to Durmstrang if it's possible," James said quietly, seriously. "Said he suggested it first and she ended up liking the idea. Maybe he'll find kids there he can connect with. I would really have wanted him to go to Hogwarts, though. I should have known that Lily would want Durmstrang for Harry, if only to emphasize the fact that Harry isn't a—   That Harry isn't like her."

"Durmstrang has its reputation," Sirius said with a nod. "It'd help Harry immensely in the future if heäs Durmstrang student. I heard, however, that they have an entrance examination of sorts."

"Of course they do."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"I need to talk with Harry and I might get him his wand early."

"You're going to train him?”

"Not much, but at least the basic spells that any other pureblood child would or should know."

"I can give him some lessons too, if you want," Sirius offered. "Or we could get him a tutor."

"A tutor would be great, actually," James said, looking excited. "I'm sure that Lily will love the idea!"

"I'll love what?" Lily said, appearing suddenly while holding a tray on which there was a slice of cake and a cup of milk. "I'm taking this to Harry first and then you'll tell me."

"Yes, ma’am!”

*

"A tutor," Lily breathed, eyes wide after James and Sirius had told her of their discussion, "I can't believe I hadn't thought of that yet! This is fantastic! Do you have anyone in mind?"

"I'll ask around at work," James said. "Employing tutors is a fairly common practice. I’ll ask for recommendations and see where that takes us."

"This is brilliant," Sirius grinned. "Will you tell Harry now or later?"

"I'll tell him," Lily offered, standing up and walking towards her son, who was still immersed in reading the book on his lap. Lily sat next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"Harry darling, I have important news for you. It’s about something you’ve really been looking forward to."

"My own library?" Harry asked, looking up with an excited expression. “Or, _or_ , we’re going to watch a _real_ Quidditch match?”

“Not quite,” Lily replied with a fond smile. “You’re already ten, sweetheart, and school is not so far away anymore. Do you remember us talking about our options before? Hogwarts and Durmstrang?”

“Yeeeees,” Harry said hesitantly, not exactly sure if he remembered whatever his mum was talking about, but unwilling to have her repeat what could possibly end up as a long lecture.

“We decided to enrol you into Durmstrang. There will be an entrance exam that you must pass, but don’t worry, it won’t be too tough for you,” Lily told him gently. “Part of success lies in preparation, and that is why your dad and I have decided to buy you your wand as soon as possible, as well as find you a tutor who will help you prepare for the exam.”

“My _wand_ ,” Harry breathed, excited. “Yes, mum! I want my wand! When are we going?”

“You have to be responsible and careful with it,” Lily instructed. “No independent attempts at magic until you’re older, is that clear?”

“Yes, yes,” Harry agreed immediately. “When will we go? Can we drop by Flotts too?"

"Flourish and Blotts, Harry, not Flotts. But yes, if you wish, we can go and buy you a new book. Adventure this time?"

"I'll see what Flott- Flourish and Blotts has on their recommendation list. The lady who makes that list every month is a _genius_."

On the other side of the room, James and Sirius were watching the two talk, feeling rather satisfied with the new development. “I'll go and have a talk with Igor," Sirius said. "Igor Karkaroff. He's the Headmaster of Durmstrang and a Death Eater, so I know him somewhat. I'll be back tomorrow to tell you what news I've got."

"You’re going now?" James asked, and his best friend nodded.

“A lot has been going on in the warfront,” Sirius replied quietly. “I’m actually really busy, but I couldn’t just not drop by on Harry’s birthday, you know?”

“Thank you,” James said, walking Sirius towards the fireplace. “Take care, all right?”

“Always,” Sirius grinned, before hollering his goodbyes loud enough for Harry and Lily to hear, and then leaving.

"Where is Durmstrang, anyway?" James heard Harry ask as he walked closer.

"It's Unplottable," Lily replied, "But most likely somewhere in Sweden."

"Sweden? What language do they speak there?"

"Well, Swedish, of course."

"Do I have to learn Swedish?"

"Unlikely," James told him, sitting down on the couch nearby. "Overall, there are about two dozen – well, could be more but who really knows – schools in the world that teach magic. Four of them are in Europe. Hogwarts is the only one that has limited its student to only those who live in Great Britain and it's also the only school that sends invitations to its students without having them pass any kind of test. The other three schools accept students worldwide, but only after a test. The language requirements depend on the institutions, of course, but in Europe the only required language is English."

"What are the other three schools?"

"There's Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. It’s said to be a great school, although its curriculum emphasizes arts and etiquette over, say, duelling. Then there’s Hogwarts, which you know already. The third school – and currently the number one choice of every Pureblood family with a shred of ambition – is Durmstrang Institute.”

"What's the fourth school?" Harry asked, curious.

"Flora Charm's School of Magic. It's for witches and wizards with special needs," Lily explained. "You have two great options: Hogwarts and Durmstrang. Although, of course, Durmstrang would be better."

"When will we go get my wand?" Harry repeated his earlier question, unsure of which school he would want to pick.

"Why not today," James said with a shrug. "The day is still young and we've got no reason to wait."

"We'll go to Ollivander's, of course," Lily smiled. "All right, let's get ready!"

*

Diagon Alley was always crowded and noisy, which tended to make Harry slightly dizzy - he simply wasn't used to seeing and hearing so _much_ at once. Being surrounded by people was strangely draining.

"Stay close to me, Harry," Lily said, hand on his shoulder. "Don't wander away from me. We’ll head first to get your wand."

"Will I get my own owl too at some point?" Harry wanted to know as they walked past Eeylops Owl Emporium, "Can I get one; _may_ I get one?"

"Did I just hear a comma splice?" Lily asked him, smiling slightly, "But yes, fine, you'll get one. Not yet... though if you pass the entrance exam, I'll buy you whichever owl you want."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now, here we are."

The shop they had stopped in front of was rather narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters painted over the door read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion behind the dusty glass of the display window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny, tiny place – barely able to fit them all at once.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, and an old man appeared from the back of the shop, looking at them with his wide, pale eyes that shone like moons through the gloom of the shop. The old man was unnerving, and reminded Harry of the tricksters in his fairy tales.

"The Potters," said the man, then, "A bit early, but not overly so. Indeed, not overly so. Mrs. Potter – nice to see you again. It seems only yesterday that you were here yourself, buying your first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice for charm work."

"Yes, Mr. Ollivander," Lily replied evenly, "It has served me well."

"Glad to hear that. Glad indeed. And James Potter! Mahogany wand, wasn't it? Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration."

"Yes," James said awkwardly. "We're here today for my son's wand, however. Shall we, um, proceed?"

“Of course. Let me see, young Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said and pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Right."

"Hold out that arm then. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

"Is that set in stone?" Harry asked, as Ollivander stopped measuring him and stepped back.

"Perhaps not," the old man said evasively, before reaching for a box, "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave." Harry did, and instead of shooting sparkles like he knew it should, the wand's tip exploded with a small bang. Ollivander blinked a few times rapidly, before shaking his head.

"Wand was too weak, eh. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try." Harry tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it burst up in flames, making him yelp and drop it just as a bowl of water was thrown on the burning stick. Ollivander frowned again and turned away for a moment, before pulling out yet another wand.

"Will that one be safe?" Lily asked warily, "I don't want my son injured."

"Here," Ollivander said, handing the wand to Harry, "Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out." Harry tried. And tried. And tried some more, with more or less destructive results. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the more interested he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, "Do I have to try all of these wands?"

"When you reach for the wand, what do you feel?" Ollivander asked, and Harry shrugged, not quite understanding why the question was being asked.

"Nothing, really," he replied, "I feel nothing."

"Your wand will be the one you feel yourself pulled to," Lily explained softly, and Ollivander nodded.

"Walk around there," the old man said, gesturing to the back of the store and the corridor between towering shelves full of wands, "and try to feel which wand would be… appealing." Harry wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to do, but went to walk between the shelves anyway. He had an odd feeling though. An odd feeling that he couldn't quite place. As if... as if...

And suddenly Harry remembered a book he had never opened. A book that had no title. The half-hidden, dusty book with dirty brown covers that Harry had seen years ago and forgotten. Why was he remembering it now? It couldn't be useful, now, could it? Except that remembering the stillness of time when he had seen that book reminded him of what he was doing now, and suddenly _there was a pull_ , and, blindly and without hesitation, Harry reached for a red box that seemed to jump into his hand.

He stood there for a long moment, clutching the box, before hesitantly making his way back to the front of the store.

"Found it, have you?" Ollivander said with a smile. "Let me see, young ma— Oh, Merlin." The man's reaction, the abrupt change in his voice and attitude when he saw the wand, made Harry both worried and self-conscious.

"Is there a problem?" Lily asked, gesturing for Harry to come and stand next to her, which he did. Ollivander looked up from the wand and gave Harry a long stare, as if he was seeing the boy for the first time.

"Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. _This_ is your wand."

"Y-yes? And?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, never forget that."

"I'm not sure I understand," Lily sighed, "You're shocked because Harry's wand's brother is in the possession of someone already?"

"No," Ollivander said. "While indeed brother wands are not common, that is not the reason for my... awe, Mrs. Potter."

"Then what is the reason?"

"The one who own the other wand, of course."

"And who might that be?" James asked, curiously. Ollivander looked at Harry again, eyes gleaming oddly.

"The Dark Lord, Mr. Potter. The Dark Lord himself."

*

"We cannot speak of this to anyone until Harry learns how to defend himself. If even _then_ ," Lily declared as soon as the three were back home. Harry was clutching his wand, wondering why everything had to always be so complicated. "The Dark Lord has enemies and if this became public knowledge, Harry will be thrust into the spotlight and people will make _assumptions_."

"Yes," James said, nodding. "We don't want or need the attention. Remember that, Harry, and never tell anyone of your wand. All right?"

"Okay," Harry promised. He was still thinking of the untitled book that he had seen years ago, and wondered if he could still find it. Maybe he should ask help from a house-elf? "Will you tell Uncle Sirius, though?"

"He'll be the only one told," James told him, "I'm so glad that Ollivander swore to not speak of this to anyone."

"Tell me about it," Lily agreed, "Imagine Skeeter smelling this scoop."

"Would’ve had to kill her to keep her quiet," James said with a grimace. "Not something I think I could do, honestly. Ah, I'm _tired_. I think I'll take a nap."

"Are _you_ tired, birthday-boy?" Lily asked, and Harry shook his head.

"I want to go the library room, actually," Harry said, "We didn't go to Flotts after all."

"Have you read Pride and Prejudice yet?" Lily wanted to know, and her son made a disgusted face.

"I read a bit. It's so _lame_."

"It's _romantic_ , that's what it is. But I suppose you want adventure and fantasy? There's the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I think you'll love the books."

"Wasn't that the series written by a squib?" James asked.

"Yes, James. Doesn't make the books worse, I assure you."

Harry left his parents to talk with each other and made his way towards the library. He didn't quite remember where he had seen the book, but since he had been spying on his father and godfather back then, it must have been near the chairs.

_'Reclaiming Magic, Redemption and Traditions, Resolutions and How To Keep Them... these aren't fiction. Pity. Maybe I won't want to even read the book after I find it? What if I— there!'_

Eagerly, Harry pulled out the ugly notebook and felt yet again the odd tingle of magic at the contact. The book itself looked just like Harry remembered: old and uninteresting. His fingers pressed against the soft leather of the cover, and he carefully wiped off the dust on the book.

After a few minutes of hesitation, Harry opened the book to look at the first page, and squinted at the almost illegible writing he found there. He couldn’t quite make out the date written, but the text below it was somewhat readable.

> _I do not know what will be said of me in the future, if anything. I’ve heard them calling me Haines the Foul when they think I do not hear them. Foul, they say, as if ambition is something to shirk away from._

"Is this a diary?" Harry muttered aloud, frowning. Why would they have a stranger’s diary in their personal library?

> _I grew in the shadow of those whose powers manifested well before mine. My brothers, each one more successful than the other, were considered of far greater value than mine. Belittled, my ambition was set aflame by desperation. I went to lengths I shouldn’t have even thought of._

Harry stopped reading and browsed through the rest of the book, noticing a reoccurring signature. It took him a moment to read the name: Haines Potter.

 _‘A relative of mine? I’ve never heard of him before,’_ Harry thought. Then again, researching his own family history had never been one of Harry’s interests.

Deciding to take the diary with him, the boy held the book against his chest as he made his way out. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read it quite yet – he had already three other books he was only halfway into – but preferred to keep the book in his room anyway. Just in case.

Tomorrow, Sirius would come and tell them about Durmstrang and whether or not he managed to find a tutor for Harry. What would his tutor teach him anyway? Would he make Harry read about magical theory and history like his mum did sometimes?

 _'I hope it's not some strict aunty,'_ Harry thought, entering his room. _'I don't think so. Surely Uncle Sirius isn't going to doom me like that.'_

Absently Harry wondered if Ron or Draco had tutors, or if they were going to get any at all. It had been quite a while since he had last seen either one of them, and sometimes Harry wondered whether or not the other two boys even thought of him anymore.

Probably not.

Maybe they even forgot him. People always seemed forget Harry easily.

 _'I wonder if everyone will be like that at Durmstrang, too,'_ the boy thought, feeling a little bit upset by the possibility. His dream of having a best friend was still living in his heart, but Harry feared that perhaps he simply wasn’t interesting enough for that to actually happen.

He wondered if that was ever going to change.

*

The following day, Harry woke up to someone sitting down on his bed. He opened his eyes only to see his godfather looking down at him with a serious expression.

"It's half past ten," Sirius said, "Aren't you going to wake up?"

"But it's so comfortable here," Harry replied, and yawned, burrowing further into his warm blankets.

"Your parents told me about your wand," Sirius then continued, moving his hand to rest on Harry's head, "They have... told you already to not talk about it, right?"

"Yeah."

"They're worried."

"But," Harry started, "isn't it sort of _cool_ that I have the Dark Lord's brother wand?"

"It'd bring the attention upon you," Sirius explained softly, "and the Dark Lord's attention is a heavy burden to bear. He would consider your wand his own, and, if you were to be unworthy in his eyes, he would kill you to get it back."

"Really?" Harry whispered, eyes widening while a cold feeling settled inside. He didn’t feel sleepy anymore, and the blankets weren’t enough to keep him warm all of a sudden. "He _would_?"

"He would," Sirius confirmed, "and, even if he would let you be, his Death Eaters – the ones that are actively still fighting for him, fighting against anyone and everyone, even their own – wouldn't leave you alone."

"Just because I have that wand?"

"The smallest of things can bring the biggest of problems."

"That's why mum and dad are worried."

"Yeah."

"I'll keep it a secret," Harry promised, "I'll be so secretive that _no one_ will know."

"That’s the spirit," Sirius said, and finally smiled. "Brush your teeth, wash your face and get changed, kid, and then come down. There's breakfast ready and I'll tell you about Durmstrang."

"You went there?" Harry asked, sliding off his bed and rushing to the bathroom to wash his face and teeth. Sirius followed him and stood in the doorway.

"I attended Hogwarts, so all the information is provided by Igor Karkaroff, who’s the headmaster there. But I did visit Durmstrang yesterday, yes."

"What is it like?"

"The building is smaller than Hogwarts. Uglier too. But their curriculum is better and for now there are more students attending."

"But how come Hogwarts is bigger if Durmstrang has more students?" Harry asked, voice muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. Sirius grinned at the adorable sight, before answering the question.

"Hogwarts has many unused classrooms. Durmstrang's school building is only four stories, and it's all classrooms. The dorms are in separate buildings. The grounds, though, are far more extensive due to their three Quidditch pitches and two open-air duelling arenas. The student count, however, is set to be cut down to a fraction of what it is now – I’m not yet sure why or how, but that’s what Igor told me."

" _Duelling arenas_?" Harry repeated with disbelief, after finishing washing his mouth, "Are you _serious_? Do they _really_ duel there?"

"Duelling is actually a course that starts during the third year of education," Sirius said, "Karkaroff said that it's very advanced there. And you know that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the seventh year students himself, don't you?"

"I didn't know that," Harry said, "Will the Dark Lord recognize my wand if he sees it?"

"We're not sure," Sirius told him, while leading the boy towards the kitchen where they'd eat their breakfast, "but there's always a risk. That's why, Harry, when you start attending Durmstrang..."

"We want you to come across as mediocre," Lily said, finishing Sirius's sentence when the two entered the kitchen; she had obviously heard them talking. "Of course I want you to do well, but don't give others a reason to single you out."

"You're making me sound like a secret agent," Harry grinned and sat down next to James, who set down a muffin in front of his son.

"Here," the man said, "Treat!"

"Cereal first!" Lily said, grabbing the muffin before Harry could, setting instead a bowl of cereal in front of him. "There."

"Oh, _mum_."

"What did Karkaroff say about the entrance exam?" James asked, and Sirius, who was now sitting in front of him, grinned.

"I signed Harry in. Next July he'll sit through the exam. If all goes well he'll start school September the first, next year."

"Did you ask him what kind of exam it is? Practical, theoretical?"

"Actually, they're just going to test his magic's compatibility to certain spells and materials. It's nothing he could really study for. Having a tutor, however, will help him prepare to what comes _after_ he gets in."

"Did you see what the dorms are like?"

“Yes, they’re _very_ different from how Hogwarts was,” Sirius said with a nod. “They’re cutting down the student number and changing the accommodation system completely. The dormitories are newly built and will be taken into use once the student body has been cut down. The Seven Towers is what Igor called the dormitories, and that’s what they really are. Seven apartment complexed with one studio flat on each floor.”

“How many floors will there be?” Lily asked, curious.

“Ten, I believe. There will be a total of seventy students once the new changes have been made.”

“That is so few,” James said, clearly surprised. “How much do they have now, six hundred?”

“Just about, yes,” Sirius replied. “They’ve been preparing for this for quite a while now, and there are many partner school willing to accept the students who’ll be kicked out after the cut.”

“That is cruel,” Lily murmured. “What is the reason, do you know?”

“Nothing for sure,” Sirius admitted. “I did take a look at the apartments, however. They’re really nice, let me tell you. If Harry gets in, he’ll have his own bathroom and a small kitchen. Apparently the students have a choice between eating in the main hall the food made by the house-elves or making their own food in their apartments."

"Maybe we should sign Harry up for cooking lessons," Lily suggested. “Even if he's too young to cook now, he’ll surely find a use for that skill later on in life."

" _Mum_!" Harry all but shrieked, "I can't cook! That's—"

"Girly stuff," Sirius continued, "Baking cookies is what girls do for their boyfriends."

"There's nothing effeminate in butchering a chicken for dinner," Lily snapped, "There's nothing girly in using sharp, big knives to cut and slice and dice. And honestly, you two, it’s _cooking_. How on earth is cooking related to _gender_? What, is _eating_ feminine too?"

"She's got a point," James said with a grin, "By the way, did you find a tutor for Harry?"

"Asked a friend, she recommended this guy," Sirius started, "His name is Gilderoy Lockhart. Apparently, he's some sort of a genius? A hero? I'm not too sure, but he's won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row."

"I know him!" Lily exclaimed, delighted, "Such a handsome, charming man! Oh, James, we're _definitely_ going to hire him!"

"Just for smiling?"

"He also has an Order of Merlin, Third Class, and is an honorary member of the Dark Force League! Not to mention that he has written _so_ many books about, well, _everything_!" Lily explained rapidly, eyes shining, "He wrote _Wandering with Werewolves_ and _Voyages with Vampires_ , for example. He's incredibly popular!"

"Mum," Harry started with disbelief. He, his father and godfather were all staring at Lily with surprise. "Are you a _fan_ of his?"

"No!" Lily exclaimed, blushing. "I just, _well_ , he's courageous and said to be powerful and has achieved _so much_ , and—"

"And won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row," James cut in, repeating Sirius's earlier words, "Fine, if he agrees, we'll hire him to tutor Harry. You said you haven't met the guy personally?"

"I haven't," Sirius said, "I've got no idea what he looks like, but I'll ask Sinistra to schedule a meeting. An interview."

"I can take care of the interview, since I have read his books and know what I'm dealing with," Lily offered, "I'm sure that he'll be a fantastic teacher for Harry."

"Hurray," Harry muttered into his cereal, "Can't wait."

*

It was three days later that Harry finally was to meet his tutor. The Potter Manor had been cleaned and Harry was wearing a new set of uncomfortable robes. He was sitting in the living room next to Sirius who was trying to make him feel anxious.

"What is he going to teach me anyway?" Harry asked, "And do I always have to be dressed like _this_?"

"You know Harry," Sirius chuckled, "I've noticed that more than half of your sentences are questions. You're one curious baby stag, aren't you?"

"I'm ten. Not a _baby_."

"Of course not."

"He'll be here soon," James said, entering the living room, "Best behaviour, yeah?"

"When have I ever been rude to guests?" Harry asked, and his father grinned.

"I meant Sirius, actually, not you."

"Hey!" Sirius exclaimed indignantly, "I'm _always_ at my best behaviour!"

"Merlin save us, then," James replied cheerfully just as they heard the floo activating. Soon enough Lily stepped into the room with a bright smile on her face, followed by Harry's future tutor. He was a tall man with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. A smile showed straight, shiny white teeth and dimples.

He was also dressed in bright purple robes.

"Hello, hello," the man said, shaking hands with James, then Sirius, and lastly with Harry. "I am, as you without a doubt know, Gilderoy Lockhart. Or Professor Lockhart in this case, heh. _Beautiful_ home, Mrs. Potter. Absolutely delightful."

"Oh please, call me Lily," Lily said with a smile, "And thank you. Um, please sit down. Would you like some tea, coffee?"

"Spring water, please," Lockhart requested with another blinding smile, "I don't really drink tea or coffee – they're bad for my teeth you see."

 _‘Really? This is the tutor?’_ Harry thought with disbelief, eyeing ghastly purple robes. _'This guy?'_

"He sounds incompetent," Sirius whispered, and after making sure that Lily wouldn't notice. James nodded with a pained expression as they watched the interview go on.

"He doesn’t sound too convincing to me," James hissed, "but Lily clearly likes him and if I don't hire him, she'll be mad at me."

"Whipped."

" _Married_."

"Dad, am I _seriously_ going to be _that guy's_ student?" Harry asked quietly, "I mean, not that I think that his skull is full of nothing, but I don't really think that he'll be able to teach me _anything_."

"He could teach you how you shouldn't be like," Sirius replied with a grin. Harry scowled, and shot him a glare.

“You’re the one who found him,” Harry said. “Uncle Sirius, I _hate_ you right now.”

He really wasn't looking forward to his future lessons. Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn't take long for Harry to decide that the only subject Gilderoy "call me Gildy" Lockhart was the master of, was the subject of himself. It was, more often than not, frustrating. How his mother had come let _this guy_ — Oh, right, she was a _fan_ , no matter how much she wanted to deny that fact. Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the new revelation concerning his dear mother.

At the manor, the house-elves had prepared a study for Harry, wherein Lockhart would tutor him every weekday for two hours. Usually the tutoring sessions went along the lines of Lockhart giving Harry something to read, Harry choosing to read something else, and Lockhart talking about himself, seemingly unaware of what Harry was doing.

The arrangement worked just fine.

"—now, trust me, any other wizard would have fled the scene if they'd been there! Ten, no, actually, I think it was almost _twenty_ werewolves that were running towards me, clearly intending on ending my life. But _hah_ , they didn't know _who_ they were up against! I, of course, managed to defeat them all—"

 _'I can't believe that he hasn't been assassinated yet,'_ Harry thought, after finishing the third chapter of The Green Witch by Susan Cooper.

"Tell me, Harry," Lockhart said suddenly, leaning forward, "Have you considered peacock-patterned robes? The colours would be so fantastic on you! All I see you wearing is black, and while that is a great colour and easy to match with anything, it just isn’t _enough_.”

"Peacock robes?" Harry repeated, feeling unsure of how to even react. "Um, no. I mean, _really_ , no. No peacock robes. Please. Say, what were the incantations you used to defeat the werewolves?"

"You're too young to know them," Lockhart said dismissively, "But how about I tell you of the time I saved two maidens from a boggart, hmm? I was in Zimbabwe, from where I bought an orange set of robes that I will show you tomorrow, when a boggart— well, it was actually _more_ than one boggart. It was more like a _pack_ of boggarts..."

Harry stared at the man for a few moments, before sighing and deciding to resume reading his book. If he wanted to learn something, he'd obviously have to study on his own. Lockhart was clearly uninterested in doing anything but wasting his time.

His mum had told him that the man used to be from Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts that was supposedly for those of keen mind... but Harry found that _very_ hard to believe.

 _'I can't just waste away like this,'_ Harry thought miserably, holding back a yawn _, 'I really do need to study. Something useful. Mum wants me to get into Durmstrang – what if I fail because I didn’t prepare well enough?'_

Harry knew that, in Durmstrang, the heirs of some of the most infamous Dark families would be studying. Other kids were bound to know Dark spells and they would know how to defend themselves, if nothing else. How was Harry supposed to impress anyone when compared to people like that? He couldn't _afford_ wasting time like this.

Harry had been listening to everything Sirius had been telling his parents about Durmstrang. Apparently the student admission methods were now harder than ever, and the accepted amount of students had been cut to a fraction to what it used to be. While his mum had become more determined than ever to get Harry into Durmstrang, Harry himself couldn't help but wonder if that would be possible.

And even if he _did_ get in, how would he survive? What kind of changes had happened, really? Why change the amount of the accepted students so abruptly, going as far as to relocate the ones who weren’t allowed to remain at Durmstrang from now on?

Harry didn't like studying - not really - but he knew that he'd have to do a lot of it in order to somehow survive.

"Professor Lockhart?"

"I told you, Harry darling, my friends call me Gildy."

"Will I get the chance to practice spells?" Harry asked, "I mean, learning theory is nice, but I want to do practical work as well."

"There’s no need to hurry in regards to that," Lockhart said dismissively, "You're still—“

"I'll be going to _Durmstrang_ ," Harry cut in seriously, fear forcing his words, "I will end up studying with kids who've all been taught by their Death Eater parents. I _can't_ waste my days listening to you talking about fictional heroics while knowing that the school I will start attending is one known for its Dark magic."

"Harry, darling," Lockhart started, but got interrupted again.

"I need a _teacher_ ," Harry insisted, horrified to realize that tears weren’t that far away from falling, "Not a… I don’t know, whatever _you_ are. A babysitter? I _need_ to learn how to survive, not how to sit here bored out of my mind. I can't afford being even _average_. I've got no one to protect me there. I need to protect myself. I need to learn _how_." Lockhart stared at Harry with an oddly blank expression for a moment. It looked almost frighteningly out of place on his face.

"Are you sure?" Lockhart asked, "Because when you learn some things, you can never unlearn them. The knowledge can be a burden. And the more you know, the harder it becomes to forgive those who don't know."

“Can _you_ teach me?” Harry wanted to know, feeling hopeful at the seriousness of the man’s voice. “Who even _are_ you, really? A fighter? A storyteller?”

“I am me,” Lockhart told him. “I love the way I am now, and that gives me a very real sense of identity. There are plenty of mind-altering spells that _do not work on me_ , simply because I know exactly who I am.”

"..."

"There is power in being individual," Lockhart continued, flicking imaginary dust off the feathers on his cape, "People don't understand those who are unlike them. And people cannot predict what they cannot understand."

"What will you teach me?" Harry asked hesitantly. Lockhart gave him a brilliant smile and waved his bright fuchsia quill at the young boy.

"I'll teach you what's useful," the man promised, "Starting from body language to body disposal. But first, your clothes need a colour-change."

 

*

 

“Gildy is so _strange_ ,” Harry declared at the dinner table later on. “He’s so different from anyone else I’ve ever known.”

“Well, he has to be _something_ , all right, to have you calling him Gildy,” James stated. “Did you learn anything useful?"

"Not yet, not really. Waste of time if you ask me." At least, so far. Harry had a feeling, however, that after the day’s discussion with the man, things would change for the better.

"Oh _come on_ ," Lily sighed, "You've been through, what, five lessons so far? Give him time. Teaching new students is always challenging in the beginning. He doesn't know how much you know and what he should be teaching you."

"He says that I should stop wearing black all the time. He wants to dress me up in rainbow colours and peacock patterns!" Harry would rather

"That'd be a sight," James muttered, "You do have green robes too, though. And blue.”

"Blue isn't really Harry's colour," Lily noted, "Green, grey, black, silver... I'd say those colours suit you the best, little man."

"Can we focus on what's _relevant_?" Harry asked, "You're not going to make your only child dress up in rainbow colours, are you?"

"Might be a good experience for you," Lily teased, making her son throw his hands up in frustration before leaving the kitchen, where his parents were trying to not laugh too loudly. Stomping up the stairs, feeling like the whole world was against him, Harry wasn't exactly in the mood of sitting down with a good story and enjoying his existence.

Ever since Harry had been told about Durmstrang and the possibility of him studying there, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. Would he... _could_ he make new friends there? That was admittedly his biggest concern, because while Harry did feel uncomfortable with other children, he still felt very lonely. But what if they all were like Draco? Not that Draco was exactly a bad guy – just incredibly self-centred and boring.

 _‘I should probably get used to that,’_ Harry thought _, ‘I’m being tutored by another incredibly self-centred idiot after all.’_ Except that he wasn't so sure anymore of whether or not Lockhart _really_ was as much of an idiot. It was all so confusing – just what kind of man _was_ he?

Sighing, Harry decided to stop thinking of the issue for now and reached for the diary he had found in the library. Maybe it was the time to read it? With any luck, it'd have an incantation of a spell or two somewhere.

"Haines Potter," Harry muttered, aloud, squinting at the badly written signature. Merlin, how could anyone’s handwriting be so lousy, he didn’t understand. "I wonder how long ago he wrote this." The pages of the journal were slightly brown already, but it didn't seem that the papers had suffered nearly as much as the covers. The diary wasn’t fiction, however, and didn’t hold his interest for long.

 _'Maybe Gildy will be able to teach me properly once I start wearing less black,'_ Harry thought reluctantly _, 'He did seem serious for a moment when he spoke.'_

The man's words from earlier that day about being an individual and being unpredictable made Harry feel as if he was holding all parts of a puzzle that he just didn't know how to connect. It was a stupid feeling - he wasn't in the middle of a _mystery_ , after all.

Would it yield any results if Harry made a list of things he wanted to be taught? Would Lockhart ignore the list or actually consider it? Harry had studied enough theory already – he wanted something that would actually be _useful_. Something he could use his wand for.

Slowly, Harry moved from where he was sitting on the bed and stared for a short moment at the red box that had his wand in it. Nervously, he opened the box to see the wand inside. Eleven inches, made of Holly. Phoenix feather inside. To think, this wand that looked so harmless was the brother of the Dark Lord’s wand.

It was astounding, and Harry couldn't deny the slight thrill he could feel. He had something in common with the Dark Lord himself. How cool was _that_?

The Dark Lord Voldemort was the official ruler of the British Wizarding World, and the unofficial leader of the European Wizarding Societies. From what Harry had found out, the Dark Lord rose into power after the mysterious death of Albus Dumbledore well over a decade ago, and had led them all to a new age of prosperity and peace. Harry had read enough stories to be wary of anything that blindly praised the people in power, but he didn’t dare to speak his mind on the issue.

Politics. The mere word was enough to make Harry’s skin crawl. Everything was far more complicated than it should when one added politics into the mix. Harry was just glad that his family wasn't one of those that were in the middle of the political circles. Draco’s dad was heavily involved, and so was Sirius. Then again… both were high ranking Death Eaters.

Harry would make sure that he would follow his parents’ footsteps and never get involved in politics. No matter what.

 

*

 

Weeks passed and life remained mostly unchanging. Harry still had to sit through the 'tutoring sessions' five days a week, much to his annoyance. His flashy, flamboyant teacher wasn't as annoying as he was in the beginning, though, and at times taught Harry a few quite useful spells.

Not that Harry got to actually use those spells outside the tutoring sessions.

"I have a question," Harry said one day, interrupting Gildy's chatter. Despite all his oddities and how damn annoying the man sometimes was, Harry had recently come to the shocking realization that he didn’t actually _dislike_ Gildy.

“Ask away, my dear,” the older wizard said. “I am here to shed light on your ignorance, after all.”

"Thanks," Harry said flatly, "If Hogwarts is for British students only, and Durmstrang admits so few now, and Beauxbatons doesn’t accept much more than Hogwarts, and Flora Charm's School is for those with special needs... then what about the rest? Where do the rest go?"

"Schools elsewhere, in other continents," Gildy said, "Or homeschooled. It's very common in small villages for the locals to gather all the children and make classes where the parents each teach a subject they're good at. It happens."

"I've never heard of that," Harry muttered.

"Well, I can't expect everyone to be as educated as me," Gildy said with a shrug, "I'm used to it, don't worry."

 _'And I'm used to you,'_ Harry thought when he noticed that he couldn't muster up the annoyance he used to feel for the man.

"And that's why I'm here," Gildy continued gently, "To save you from stupidity and ignorance that aren’t your fault, dear child. We can't all be born geniuses like me."

Forget it. Now he could.

"Mum mentioned that you talked to her about a field trip of sorts?" Harry asked, changing the subject, "Is that true?"

"Yes, actually. I find your social awkwardness rather tragic. You need to be more outgoing. Like me."

"I don't think I could be like you."

"Oh, Harry," Gildy chuckled, "You need to have more confidence."

"No, really," Harry insisted dryly, "I couldn't. Where we'll be going? When's the trip anyway? It's not a fashion exhibition or anything, is it? Because if it is, I'm not going."

"Oh come _on_ , Harry dear. Don't be such a _bore_."

"It _is_! What could seeing a bunch of clothes do for me?"

"A world of good," Gildy said with a tone that was a smidge away from judgmental, "You'll learn a lot about fabrics: which ones will protect you from fire, the price of dragonhide boots, which will make you unable to drown – or dive, for that matter. Not to mention that my good friend Peppita Peppino will show you her _Edition Electra_ dressrobe line that I have been waiting for since last Christmas. _Also_ , we might get you something that is not black."

"And my opinion—"

"I listen to what your _soul_ yearns for, not what your mouth is saying. We're going tomorrow. Don't wear black, or I'll make you wear orange."

And that was why and how Harry Potter, ten years old and dressed in dark green robes, found himself in Rome the next day.

His teacher, dressed in golden robes, fluttered around in a crowd that he seemed to know very well. Harry was dragged along and his cheeks had been pinched - for being _cute_ – too many times for him to count, but certainly enough to make his cheeks ache.

"And _this_ , Gildy-darling, has augurey feathers on it! Look!" a woman with her dark hair tied up in what looked like a very complicated hairdo involving gold and ribbons was saying in heavily accented English, "They repel ink and oil and generally don't stain. See, I designed this cape to have them on the shoulders and arms because this way - they repel water too, as you know - you'll be safe from rain while wearing this! Fabulous, isn't it?"

"Peppita you are a _genius_ ," Lockhart said admiringly, "This is a masterpiece! Harry, come on, _Harry_! Look at this."

"This is your... son?" Peppita asked, looking at Harry, "A lovely child. Very pretty, well done."

"He's my student," Gildy hurried to correct, "I was hoping we'd find a souvenir here for him. Poor child, almost always wears black."

"But that is _dreadful_!" Peppita gasped. "No worries, _none_ anymore! Peppita will take care of you, young man. How old is he, Gildy-darling?"

"Ten, and will be starting school soon."

"Oh, delightful! How about boots? Genuine leather! And not just _any_ leather, no. Peppita doesn't design boots to be made of normal leather." The woman shook her head with a smug smile on her face, before continuing. "Clabbert skin! Smooth and hairless and green. Green suits you, young man. Suits you so well."

"I was actually hoping for something more... _specific_ ," Gilderoy said slyly, and Harry blinked with surprise at the change of his tone. He was clearly up to something. "Harry here may very well be going to Durmstrang."

" _Ah_ ," Peppita said, and it seemed that some kind of realization dawned. Harry wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but he just hoped that it wouldn't be too damaging for his pride. "Invisibility cloak? We found a few demiguises and managed to make two capes."

"No," Gilderoy said, shaking his head, "That is so, well, not _ordinary_ , but achievable by others."

"Then how about a diricawl-feather coat?" Peppita asked, before turning to Harry, "The diricawls are _remarkable_ for their method of escaping danger: a diricawl can vanish in a puff of feathers and reappear elsewhere. To a lesser degree, the coat allows you to do the same."

"That'd be like Apparating, which he's going to learn eventually anyway."

"How about erumpent-skin jacket? It repels most curses."

"Hm," Gildy pursed his lips and thought for a few long moments before shaking his head, "I'm _sorry_ , doll, but I've got to say no. There're specific spells to cause harm when one's wearing erumpent skin and I don't want to subject Harry to that."

"Understandable," Peppita nodded, "Don’t worry, dear, we’ll come up with something eventually. You know, a few days ago a fraud tried to sell me what he called nundu fur. Nundu! _Ha_! Fifty wizards _together_ cannot kill a nundu to get its fur!"

"Fabric scammers are shameless," Gildy agreed, "Listen, I've wanted to ask you all evening... that gown you're wearing, could it possibly be Pogrebin?"

"Good for camouflage," Peppita confirmed with a smile, "People notice me only when I want them to."

Harry stood, bored out of his mind, watching the exchange between the two. Admittedly, the properties of the different skins and scales used for clothes were interesting, but Harry knew that the most common fabrics were still the basic ones: cotton, silk, wool and the other 'normal' sort like that. Besides, his mother was quite against animals being killed for things like clothes.

"For Harry, I'd want something subtle, even if it's not on this season's collection. As I told you, he's going to Durmstrang, and I want him to be protected without other people knowing." Suddenly, the designer drew in a sharp breath and grabbed Gilderoy's arm. Harry tensed, not sure of what had changed.

"I have _just_ the thing for you," Peppita whispered, "But it's expensive and dangerous to smuggle around, Gilderoy Lockhart. I keep it in the backroom, in a safe that only I can access. If you want it, we can go immediately to get it, but the boy must wear it right away - that's the safest way he could carry it around. Peppita _knows_ , Gilderoy, that if anyone knew he has it, they would love to kill him to get it."

"And what would that be?" the man asked, and Harry half-expected the woman to suggest yet again something outrageous.

"A manticore, what do you Englishmen call it, undershirt," Peppita replied in a voice that was even quieter than before, "Manticore skin repels almost _all_ known charms and curses regardless of how thin it is. He'll wear the undershirt beneath whatever else he's wearing, and his torso will be protected. The material stretches quite a bit, so he can use it for a few years, depending on how much he grows."

"You, my lady," Gilderoy breathed, deeply impressed, "are a _gem_."

"I know," the woman said with a nod, "I am Peppita Peppino after all!"

"Hear that, Harry?" the man said with a wide smile, hand on Harry's shoulder, "Aren't you glad now that I am your teacher, no one else? Aren't you glad I brought you here? Peppita darling, additionally, I want to get him that jacket there," Gildy said, pointing at a shining silver jacket that seemed to be made of scales, "Genuine leather?"

"Moke skin," Peppita confirmed, "A good jacket, one of my best. Mokes have this ability to shrink and grow depending on what they want - that means that clothes made of moke readjust their size as the one who wears them grows."

"And it looks good," Gilderoy muttered, "Come on, Harry, let's go check it out."

'So this trip wasn't for nothing after all,' Harry thought, following the man to where the designer was leading them, 'Maybe he's a good g-'

"Harry-dear," Gilderoy said, turning to the boy, "Now that you have something to shield you, you don't need to learn incantations, right?"

 

*

 

A few months passed, bringing change with them.

The situation with the Rebels – a worldwide group that opposed the Dark Lord Voldemort and wanted to put an end to his regime – was becoming worse, which led his parents working longer hours than before. Even Sirius, who was a high-ranking Death Eater, was busy with is duties.

This led to the unfortunate result of Harry spending even more time with the man he had to call ‘Gildy’.

"It's not long till the examination day," Gildy said one rainy Monday, "How are you feeling, Harry-darling?"

"I don't know," Harry grunted, not looking up from the book he was reading. Gildy looked at him for a few moments, before sighing and turning to readjust the hat he was wearing, vowing to never wear red again. It just wasn't his colour.

"If you get in, it'll bring a lot of prestige to your family. And to me, of course, since I'm your tutor. Not that I don't have enough prestige to my own name already. I am, after all, the hero Gilderoy Lockhart."

"If you're such a hero, why aren't you fighting the rebels?”

"To take care of you. I'm sacrificing all of my future Order of Merlins just to make sure that you're not lonely."

"Your absence won't be a source of sorrow."

"Ah, absence," Gildy sighed, "Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream. And I seek then in vain by the meadow and stream."

"What?" Harry asked, frowning. The blond man winked at him and offered a wide smile.

"George Linley. Girls dig it."

 _'I wonder what kind of woman would have a relationship with him,'_ Harry wondered, before shaking his head and returning to his book. Gildy frowned, feeling bored and in the mood for sharing his worldly wisdom about, well, anything and everything.

"You always read stories," the blond man said, "They're not even facts. Stories are, some people have claimed, completely void of benefit."

"Some stories are true that never happened," Harry replied, not looking up from his book. "Imagination and fiction make up more than three-quarters of our real life."

"You're... quoting people at me," Gildy said, surprised, "Then how about this? He who has imagination without learning has wings but no feet. Joseph Joubert. You know him?"

"No."

"Well, he was a squib. One of the most famous squibs, but still a squib."

"I see."

"Ah, you're getting snippy. Is it because my knowledge is making you feel inferior? Harry darling, don't worry - I have more than 20 years of experience more than you."

"Experience on what?" Harry asked.

"Life," Gildy replied, "Being a hero. A celebrity. It teaches me to live my life differently. Unlike you, I have _enemies_ out there. You have none."

"For now," Harry corrected, "Dad says that every man with an opinion has an enemy. And mum says that I have a lot of opinions."

"That's delightfully depressing. Say, what do you think of attending another fashion show?"

"Are you mad?"

"Why does everybody ask me that?" Gildy muttered, shaking his head, "Fine. Go back to reading your silly book then, Harry-dear. Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

"That's alright," Harry assured him, " _I'm_ happy about it."

And he was. The stories weren't affected by the rebels like his family was.

 

*

 

Harry had waited for July to come for what seemed like a _lifetime_. And now that the month had finally started, he didn't know what to do. The entrance examination of Durmstrang would be in three days and Harry was too nervous to even study.

 _'What if I fail to get in?'_ the boy thought, _'Well, of course there's always Hogwarts, but still.'_ Deciding to go for a bit of a walk before going to sleep, he exited the room only to stop when he heard his mother's voice talking.

"Only ten students get accepted," Lily was saying nervously, "I wonder why the system was changed."

"Rumour has it that the Dark Lord wants to turn Durmstrang into a military school," Sirius replied, "Apparently, the Rebels are becoming dangerous and they want to start scouting for the army early on."

"The Rebels," James sighed, rubbing his eyes, "How I wish they'd give up already... Why are they even fighting? _What_ are they fighting _for_?"

"Mudblood supremacy," Lily said sharply, and a part of Harry flinched, hating his mother for saying what she said with the knowledge that she herself was a 'Mudblood' in the eyes of many others.

"Lils..."

"What? That's what they—"

"You don't need to use that word," James said softly, "There's nothing wrong in not being a Pureblood. You know it better than most - there's no need to compensate for anything."

"I-"

"I don't think that Harry will fail," Sirius hurried to cut in, "I mean, Karkaroff knows Harry's my godson. The thing is, are you _sure_ you want Harry in Durmstrang, knowing that it could potentially be turned into a military school? What if all the times the Dark Lord has visited Durmstrang till now was for this purpose? Actually, _Merlin_ , how could I have been so blind? That'd totally make _sense_!"

"Harry is going to be a Death Eater no matter which school he attends," Lily pointed out, "So _yes_ , I'm sure that Durmstrang will be the best for him."

"Yeah," James echoed, less sure of himself, "It's just that everything is so unpredictable nowadays."

"Life is unpredictable," Sirius said with a shrug, "So don't even try."

"My biggest concern is about someone finding out about Harry's wand," Lily admitted, "What kind of test did Sirius say it was?"

"Well, he was told that it'd be some sort of magic compatibility test, but I'm not so sure since so much has been changed already," James replied, "What do you think, Sirius?"

"I don't know what to think," the man admitted, "I just feel like suddenly everything is confusing, and I don't know how much has changed and why. I don't even know if the rumoured plans for Durmstrang are really going to be true. Why would the Dark Lord need a special squad of Death Eaters? Why does he suddenly— Does he _need_ a special squad? Surely the Rebels aren't _that_ dangerous?"

"You think," Lily breathed, leaning forward, "That something concerning the Rebels is being hidden from us? Something big?"

"I don't know. I’m a _Lieutenant General_ , there isn’t much that _I_ don’t know. If the Rebels are a worse issue than we thought before, then I most certainly should be made aware of it."

"With students so few in number the risk of Harry standing out in ways we don't want will be greater."

"Not only that," Sirius said, "But if Harry gets in and is only average and shows no particular ambition – it's going to be noticed. And not in a good way."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," James decided, "All we can do is to tell Harry to be careful and avoid drawing attention to himself if possible. He's rather good at that, though. People always seem to... forget him. Not notice him."

"That will change if people become aware of him for some reason or another," Lily pointed out, "All because of one wand!"

"It's not _any_ wand," Sirius reminded her, "Although I admit to being curious as to why Harry got the brother wand of the Dark Lord. Could there be a connection?"

"Don't say that!" Lily exclaimed, thinking of the possibilities of what could happen if there truly was some kind of connection between the Dark Lord and her son, "Harry is _normal_. He is _ordinary_."

"We know," James assured her.

"For now," Sirius added.

 

*

 

Despite it being early July, the examination day was cold and windy.

"You're not coming down with anything, are you?" James asked with a concerned frown when he saw his son shivering.

"He's just nervous," Lily said, "Happens to me too, that. Feeling cold and shivering when nervous. Similar."

"Is the portkey ready?" Sirius asked from where he was readjusting his collar, "Because we ought to get going."

"Yes. Is everyone ready to go? Harry, this is it now. Do you have your wand with you?"

"Yeeees," Harry said, feeling sick already. So many things could go wrong, and the only things that gave him any comfort were his father's words of crossing bridges when they'd get there. It wasn't as if he had any other options. His hand was sweaty when he gripped the portkey, and by the time they arrived, he was feeling nauseated enough to almost throw up. Lily's cool hand on his forehead and a murmured spell made him feel slightly better, though. Good enough to go forward, at least.

The Durmstrang school building was exactly how Sirius had described it and it did not look inviting _at all_. Harry's godfather led them through the crowd; there were so many other families there, each escorting their child for the examination hall and saying the final _'good luck_ 's.

"There has to be at least a _thousand_ kids here," James whispered, reluctantly impressed.

"That's Durmstrang's attraction for you," Sirius said with a shrug, "Only ten will pass, though. One of which will be our Harry. Come on, kiddo! We'll get you to the examination hall soon enough. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," Harry replied hesitantly, just as they entered the building. The whole place seemed to be made of an odd combination of stone, wood and glass, and while, from the outside, the building had looked plain, on the inside, it was impressive and a bit ominous.

Sirius spoke to a dark-haired man whose smile was too wide to be entirely normal. Harry shivered, getting a bad feeling from this guy. Suddenly, Sirius turned and gestured for Harry to go to him. Lily gripped James's arm, and the two stayed back when their son went to his godfather.

"This is Harry Potter," Sirius said, "Harry, this is Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang."

"It's an honour to meet you, sir," Harry said nervously, and Karkaroff's eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn't quite identify.

"Likewise, young Potter. Eager to be a student here, are you?"

"Quite, sir."

"Disciplined and polite," Karkaroff muttered, "I like that. Come on. I will personally escort you to the examination hall. Sirius, you can wait here with the boy's parents." Feeling increasingly nervous, Harry didn't get the opportunity to even look at his godfather before he was pulled away, having to run to keep up with the long strides of the Headmaster.

 _'I wonder what kind of exam it's going to be,'_ Harry thought _, 'I feel like I know nothing.'_

"You're eleven, are you not?" Karkaroff asked suddenly.

"Ten," Harry replied, "I'll be turning eleven in a few weeks, though."

"The steps you need to take during the exam will be explained here," Karkaroff said just as they stepped into a spacious auditorium that already was almost full, "The number of applicants for admission this year exceeds one thousand, and we had to employ more than one auditorium to ensure that everyone would have a place. Are you prepared?"

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly, and the wide grin of the Headmaster turned into a tight-lipped smile that, while it wasn't as cheerful, seemed to be far more honest.

"Good answer," he said, "Sirius, your godfather, is a very good friend of mine. He wants you to get in and he has assured me that you have the talent to become an outstanding wizard. I am yet to be convinced of that fact, but then again I do not know you. Succeed and prove him right."

"I'll try, sir," Harry replied warily.

"Now take a seat and wait for Professor Lyuben to start talking." After saying that, Karkaroff didn't stick around for any longer. Harry was left there alone and uncertain. There were countless other people trying to get into Durmstrang... how could _Harry_ be one of the top ten? It seemed like an impossible feat!

 _'We won't be tested individually, so it has to be some sort of a mass-elimination process,'_ Harry thought, trying to calm down. Losing confidence now would be a grave mistake _. 'Uncle Sirius said it's not a written exam, and the tables are empty, but...’_

The loud sound of the hall's door closing startled Harry out of his thoughts. He looked around and saw hundreds of other boys and girls of his age sitting and waiting nervously. At the front stood a tall, old man with a thick grey beard and his equally grey hair tied into a short braid. A pair of glasses was balancing on his nose, and he stood with the easy confidence of a wizard who clearly knew where he belonged.

"I am Thomas Lyuben," he started, tired voice carrying over the huge auditorium easily. "I am the Deputy Headmaster of Durmstrang and also the Professor of History of Magic. You are here to try to get yourselves accepted into Durmstrang, and whether or not you succeed will be determined by the results of the entrance examination today."

 _'Here we go,'_ Harry thought, taking a deep breath.

"Since you are not in school yet, we assume that you know no spells. However, you _all_ have your wands. Above your heads, you will see a quill and a piece of paper hovering - your first task is to use a spell to bring them to you. I will show you the spell and the wand-movement. If you succeed, you'll get the paper and answer the questions, after which you'll stand up. An assistant will then approach you and take you to your next stop."

 _'It has to be a summoning spell, the one he'll show us,'_ Harry thought _, 'I wonder how many here know it already.'_ Harry knew the incantation and the wand movement - his both parents used the spell often enough - but he wasn't sure whether or not he'd be able to cast it correctly.

"The incantation is _Accio_ ," Professor Lyuben said, "Direct the wand on the thing that has to be summoned or name the object. You have one hour to complete this part of the examination. You may begin."

 _'Concentration is the key,'_ Harry told himself, looking up at the purple quill and the rolled paper waiting for him. He could hear a girl's voice behind him repeat the incantation a few times with frustration and he tried to block her voice out. His wand was warm in his grip and he could feel it in a way that made him think of the twin brother he never had. He trusted his wand more than he trusted himself.

Harry could hear the sound of papers shuffling and quills either dropping down or bumping into something or even a few exploding. He could hear the hissed curses of those around and he could hear his own steady breathing when he finally lifted his wand and said the spell.

The rolled paper and the purple quill floated down and settled onto the table in front of him. Knowing that the first part of the test was only halfway done, Harry didn't let himself feel happy quite yet. Nervously, he undid the seal that kept the paper rolled and read the few questions there.

_Where do you see yourself seven years from today?_

_What courses in Durmstrang's curriculum interest you the most?_

_How aware of the current politics are you?_

_Do you choose obeying orders over doing what you think is right?_

_‘It’s like a survey,'_ Harry realized, writing down vague answers that he'd most probably forget by the time they actually became relevant _, 'I wonder what for. It's not like these questions will really determine whether or not we're good enough to become students here, right? I wonder how many passed this part of the test.’_

Finishing quickly, Harry stood then up, looking around him. There were only three boys and one girl standing up aside from him, and in a few minutes they were approached by whom Harry could guess to be the assistants. He, too, felt a hand on his shoulder and allowed himself to be led out of the hall.

"Well done," the person leading him said, and stopped to turn Harry around. The young man was a tall, blue-eyed brunet with a freckled face dressed in black robes. "I'm Felix. A prefect here, starting my seventh year after the holiday. Well done indeed back there... the summoning spell might sound easy but it's rather tricky. Um, are you nervous?"

"What was that survey about?" Harry asked him instead of answering, "I mean, it seemed pretty pointless."

"Character evaluation," Felix replied, starting to walk again, "They'll be relevant only in the final selection."

"What's the next step? How many prefects are here? How many students?"

"A lot has changed between last year and the next. The number of students was cut down insanely, although you probably already know that."

"Where are you taking me?" Harry asked.

"Not many kids go past the first step, but there're still too many. The next part will eliminate even more, and only the top ten will remain— why am I tell _you_ this? It's like, I don't know, talking to myself." Felix said with a frown and shook his head before finally stopping in front of a doorway, "We're here. In you go." Harry nodded, swallowing nervously. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

And then everything went black.

 

*

 

The first thing Harry became aware of was the damp coldness surrounding him. And then, the hard wood he was laying on. The sound of bypassing trains was oddly comforting, but still strange. Harry finally opened his eyes and sat up, taking in the sight of the almost empty train station he was in right now.

 _'It's cold,'_ Harry thought, rubbing his arms, _'Where am I?'_ It felt like he was in a dream... there seemed to be a light fog over the place, and _how_ had he ended up at a train station alone at night anyway?

"And... why are you here?" a voice asked, and, startled, Harry turned to see an old man standing next to the bench he was sitting on. The man was tall and thin, with long silver hair and a long beard. Brilliant blue eyes twinkled in a way that Harry had never believed to be quite possible.

"Who are you?" Harry asked warily.

"A dead man," the old man replied calmly, "Just one of many. It's rare that I see any of you young ones here, though."

"You can't be dead," Harry said, " _I'm_ not! I'm— Oh God! The _exam_! I was at Durmstrang doing the entrance exam! What am I doing here? _Why_ am I here! Is this... Where _am_ I?"

"This station is on no map," the old man said and sat down, "Entrance exam, you say."

"Yes," Harry confirmed, standing up and looking around him with increasing panic, "I should be doing the second part now, not be here! My mum and dad..."

"Maybe you are," the man noted kindly. He said something else, too, but the sound of a bypassing train drowned the words with its noise. Harry looked around again, forcing himself to stay calm. If he failed to get into Durmstrang, then he'd just go to Hogwarts. No panic. Really, no reason to panic.

"Where do these trains go?" he asked suddenly, "Can one take me home?"

"These trains?" the old man chuckled, "No. They go... nowhere."

"That's silly," Harry said, "It can't be. If they leave here, they go somewhere else. Not nowhere!"

"Perhaps I phrased it wrongly. They go to _Nowhere_. At least some of them. Some others go elsewhere."

"I don't understand."

"Not many do. That is fine."

"Who _are_ you?" Harry demanded to know, "How do I get back to where I was?" The old man smiled at him wistfully and sighed.

"Young ones. Always so impatient."

"Where do I go from here?" Harry asked, "Help me, _please_."

"But you don't need any help," the man said, clearly surprised, "You came here on your own, and you can leave on your own."

"But _how_?"

"How did you come here?"

"I don't know!"

"My boy, calm down first," the old man said soothingly, "Your magic led you here, and it will lead you back if you allow it to."

"But the exam..."

"This could be a part of it. Durmstrang was known for its trickery back when I was alive too."

"You went there?" Harry asked, curiously. The old man shook his head.

"No, no. I was a Hogwarts student back in the day. But a... former close friend of mine attended Durmstrang."

"Who?"

"I doubt that you'd know him," the old man said, blue eyes dimming slightly, "It has been so long."

"You said that this could be a part of the exam. How?" Harry asked.

"Who knows," the man replied, and Harry could see him talking, but suddenly he couldn't hear. It was as if he had gone _deaf_ or something. A strange pull was twisting his insides, and it felt like he was using a portkey and—

 

*

 

Harry woke up gasping for breath. He sat up, feeling sick.

"Number three!" a female voice called, "We have number three here! Woke up third."

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter," a man was saying, and Harry could hardly understand him, "You have passed the second test."

"What?" Harry asked faintly, frowning and trying to ease the throbbing in his head, "What's going on?"

"When you entered the room, you were stunned," the man explained, "All of the students were stunned when they arrived 'til all of you who passed the first test were finally here. Then we lifted the stunners and cast a sleeping spell. The ten who could work out the way to wake up first would pass this exam."

"Sleeping spell?" Harry asked, "I was _asleep_?" So did that mean that the train station was a dream? But it had felt so... real.

"Yes," the man said, pulling Harry to stand up, "You were the third one to wake up. Congratulations. Now, we go find your parents, do a bit of paperwork, and the next time you come here will be in September."

"Thank you," Harry said dazedly, following the man out.

He had _succeeded_. He had _really_ succeeded.


	3. Chapter 3

This was it. He was really going to Durmstrang.

"Alright, I checked your trunk - you have all your books," Lily said, hurrying past him carrying a pile of clothes, "Do you have enough underwear?"

"I have everything I need," Harry replied, "All the books, all the equipment, all the clothes. The studio flat comes furnished."

"I don't really like the idea of you living there alone," Lily sighed, "You're just a baby. Maybe I should send a house-elf with you."

" _Mum_!" Harry shrieked, flushing with embarrassment, "Mum, it's a _dorm room_ of sorts. I won't be alone. And I am _not_ a baby!"

"You better make some friends, buddy," Sirius said, walking past the two, "Did James give you his cloak? The _invisibility_ cloak?"

"He's _not_ giving it to Harry," Lily declared, "Merlin knows what kind of trouble the boy would get into if he could turn _invisible_ whenever he wants."

"As much as I hate to say this - and I hate it plenty - I don't think Harry should pull any pranks there," James said, walking into the room. At the sight of Sirius’s horrified expression, he rolled his eyes. "At least not yet. We don't know what kind of punishments they dish out. If it's a military school, I doubt that they'll stick to detentions and trophy-polishing the way Hogwarts did."

"I don't think that they'll start right away with the hard bits," Sirius said, "I mean, rumoured military school or not, they're still just kids and the Dark Lord cannot be _that_ desperate!"

"Speaking of desperate," Lily sighed and glared at Harry, "Did you _really_ think that I wouldn't see you smuggling a broom to school? They've _specifically_ said that first years have to pass the flying course before they can bring their own brooms."

“Oh, did they really,” Harry said evasively, before hiding his face behind a book.

"Did you see their curriculum books?" Sirius asked, and James nodded with wide eyes.

"When will you even have the _time_ to read all that junk?"

"Junk!" Lily gasped, outraged, "Did you just refer to a valuable source of knowledge as junk!"

"Oops," James offered unapologetically, making his wife glare. "It's just, are they going to just _study_ there?"

"Since when did people go to school to study?" Sirius wanted to know, "I never did! It doesn't make sense to me! Harry will drown in a sea of science and he'll become a _bookworm_!"

"He already is," Lily stated flatly, and the three adults turned to look at the young boy who was too focused on the book he was reading to pay attention to them. Lily smirked at the two men who had pained expressions on their faces. "See? Bookworm and the pride of his mum!"

"I tried my best," James sniffled, and Sirius laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"There, there. I'm sure he'll be cured one day."

"Grow up," Lily said with a smile, "And I think that you had a gift for Harry, didn’t you? Harry! I know the book is interesting, but it's time to stop reading now."

"Why?" Harry asked, sighing and looking up at his mother, "I already did everything you told me to do."

"Remember when we went to get your wand," James started while gesturing for Sirius to get the gift Lily had mentioned, "And we promised you something if you'd get into Durmstrang?"

"You promised me an owl," Harry said, "I've yet to get it."

"You're getting it now," Sirius said, walking back into the room, carrying a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. Harry couldn't stop staring at it, feeling like he had just gotten the most beautiful owl in the world. "Snowy Owl. The owner called her Hedwig. Said she's a bit snobby for an owl, probably believes herself to be as much of a queen as her namesake."

"Hedwig," Harry muttered, "Wicked cool."

"I picked her," Sirius said proudly, "The owner said that she was reserved already for someone else, but I made him see the error of his ways."

"That's your godfather, increasing his criminal record for your sake," Lily remarked, making Harry laugh, "I'm going to pack some snacks with you tomorrow morning."

"Like what?" Harry asked just as his mother left the room.

"James, we can't let her do that," Sirius whispered, "She'll pack some salad, maybe some fruits and a cereal bar if we don't interfere!"

"That actually sounds good," James replied, "I want a cereal bar."

"God, she _corrupted_ you! Tomorrow, you'll tell me that you’ve given up on pasta and cake!”

"Harry," Lily called, making a reappearance at the doorway, "Have you already picked out what you will wear tomorrow?"

"Um... the school uniform?" And the manticore shirt, but Harry wasn't going to tell his parents about _that_ ; he had a feeling that they'd either get angry or insist on paying it back to Gildy. Or worse - make Harry give the shirt away. Harry _liked_ the shirt. It was very smooth and cool against his skin and felt really comfortable.

"Gilderoy sent you a set of lovely robes," Lily said, "I thought you'd be..."

"No," Harry, Sirius and James said simultaneously.

"How do I go to Durmstrang this time?"

"A portkey will take you - and only you - to a meeting place at school," James explained, "while your trunk will be sent separately and it'll wait for you in the flat they've decided to give you. I'm not sure of what else you'll be doing, though. You're not nervous, though, are you?"

"No," Harry lied, "I'm not nervous at all."

*

The following day, Harry was awake and drinking apple juice in the kitchen at half past six, even though the portkey that'd take him to Durmstrang wouldn’t activate until nine. He just... couldn't sleep. A part of him was happy that finally he was going, but another part of him was afraid of the change. He could handle being friendless... but what if the _teachers_ would hate his guts too?

 _'I wonder if I can change schools if I don't like it there,'_ Harry though, before another realization dawned on him: _'If it's the Dark Lord's military school, then does that mean that I’ll get to see the Dark Lord? Will he be there?'_ Then again, even if he was... it wasn't as if he'd notice _Harry_. Nobody did, except for his parents and godfather, and oddly enough Gildy.

He had gotten a sparkly letter of congratulations from the eccentric man who claimed that his sixth sense had told him that Harry would succeed. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Gildy would one day claim to be a seer of some kind and demand to be declared a saint patron of something or other.

"You're awake," Lily said, appearing at the doorway before moving to sit in front of him. The expression on her tired face was gentle and proud, and it made Harry feel a little bit better. "How are you feeling?"

"Anxious," he confessed, smiling weakly, "What if something goes _wrong_?"

"Nothing will," Lily assured him, "Harry, just be yourself. Exceed expectations or not, don't pretend to be someone you're not. I talked with James about this, and we decided that the best way to keep you from seeming suspicious, is to have you simply act normal. You have nothing to hide."

"But what about-"

"Even _if_ , some day, someone was to find out about your wand, it's not exactly your fault, now is it? Just don't flaunt it. Even if you're the best, _never_ make a fuss over that. You're good at not being noticed, baby. I want you to use that to your advantage."

"I'll try," Harry promised quietly, "Anything else?"

"Just be careful who you associate with, there," Lily said, "Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate. You don't want to end up being hated by people who could destroy you. And… even if something goes wrong, don’t let that bring you down. Things go wrong all the time, and the best thing you can do is deal with it swiftly and logically."

"All right," Harry promised easily. "I'll write to you as often as I can."

"Focus on your studies there. Most of the day, you'll be spending in classrooms, and the free time you have is better spent revising."

"Oh, come _on_."

"Harry," Lily said quietly, seriously, "Your father didn't want me to tell you this, but to make you understand how important it is for you to acquire as much knowledge as possible, I think you're better off knowing."

"Knowing what?" Harry asked, feeling worried.

"We suspect that the Rebels might be becoming a greater threat than anticipated," Lily explained, her voice calm and steady. "The more you learn, the better your chances of survival are, even if you were to meet a Rebel at some point."

"Do you think that I will meet one?" Harry asked curiously. The whole idea of _him_ meeting a Rebel seemed to be a paranoid nightmare of his mum's. Like a distant, dangerous possibility.

"I'd rather have you be ready than sorry," Lily replied, "For all I know, you could spend your whole lifetime not meeting a single Rebel. That's unlikely, but could happen."

"What do they do? The Rebels, I mean."

"They blame the Dark Lord and accuse him of terrible things. Harry... The Dark Lord is not a kind man. On the contrary, he's cruel and some say he's downright evil. But he has done a world of good to our society. Never forget that."

"I won't," Harry said, before finishing his drink and slipping off the chair, "How will you send my trunk to school?"

"The school sent a specific portkey for the luggage," Lily revealed, "So we'll be able to send it very easily, don't worry."

"I'm not _worried_."

"Uh-huh."

"I'll be going to shower and brush my teeth again," Harry said, "Are you _sure_ I can't take my broom with me?"

"I am certain, dear."

"Alright then," Harry sighed with resignation.

*

"Are you ready, Harry?" James asked, "Five minutes 'til the portkey activates. We already sent your trunk."

"I'm ready," Harry said, heart beating rapidly. He was dressed in his Durmstrang uniform: brown trousers, a white shirt, a brown tie, and a brown jacket. The shoes, too, were brown. Harry didn't mind the colour. Actually, he liked it quite a bit.

"Take care of yourself," Lily said, beautiful face full of concern, "If anything bad happens, just come back home."

"If anyone gives you a tough time, just tell me," Sirius piped in. He had arrived half an hour ago to spend few more minutes with his godson before Harry left for Durmstrang. "I'll kick their sorry asses-"

"Sirius Black!"

" _What_? I'd do it!"

"It's activating!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, his voice high with nervousness. He cast a wide-eyed look at his parents and godfather before the portkey whisked him away, before he could even yell out one last goodbye.

Generally speaking, Harry _hated_ portkeys. They always left him with that dizzy, nauseated feeling, and this time was no different. He could hardly feel the grass beneath his feet for the first few moments it took him to compose himself.

"Harry Potter?" a voice said, and Harry looked up to see the Deputy Headmaster who had introduced himself during the first exam. "I am Professor Lyuben. Welcome to Durmstrang."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Harry said, scrambling up. He saw five other students already there – three boys and two girls – and wondered whether or not his future friends were amongst those five. The boys were wearing the exact same uniform as he, while the girls wore a brown knee-length dress with a brown jacket that had the Durmstrang insignia on it.

"We'll wait for the other students to arrive before proceeding to a location more suitable for the orientation session,” Professor Lyuben said. “There you will be given your schedules, assigned housing quarters and introduced to the rules of this institute. For now, however, do wait with the others.”

Silently, Harry obeyed, moving hesitantly closer to where the five were standing. Nobody spoke, and with some relief Harry realized that perhaps everyone else was just as nervous as he was.

It didn't take long for the other four students to arrive, after which the group of ten was led to what looked like a meeting room furnished with a long table made of dark wood and black leather chairs surrounding it.

"Take a seat, everyone," Professor Lyuben commanded, heading towards the door after making sure that everyone was present. “Your homeroom teacher, Professor Dietmar, will arrive shortly to begin the orientation. Wait patiently.” The old man then shut the door, leaving then children to sit alone.

 _'This feels awkward,'_ Harry thought _, 'I'm surrounded by strangers.'_

"Only the ten of us passed?" a brown-haired boy with round face and even more freckles than Ron Weasley asked, "There were over a _thousand_ other students who tried!"

"Yes, well, the point of the entrance exam was to weed out the trash," another boy, a blond one with bright grey eyes retorted bluntly, "Out of all other participants, we're - _arguably_ \- the best."

" _You_ don't think we are," a girl spoke up, and something in the way she spoke made Harry think of Peppita Peppino, "At least, you don't think that _all_ of us deserve to be here."

"Luckily, it wasn't for either one of you two to choose, eh?" the boy who had first spoken up said with a sneer, "Who are _you_ , anyway?"

"Clemens Marvin," the blond boy said coolly, "And you?"

"Nikolai. Nikolai Rolan."

 _'I wonder if they are going to be friends now,'_ Harry thought. He then heard the door of the room opening and a man in his mid-forties, dressed in a fur-trimmed teal set of robes, entered. Was _that_ perhaps Professor Dietmar whom the Deputy Headmaster had mentioned?

"Alright, new kids," the man said, before straightening up and smiling at them. The smile didn’t look even accidentally sincere, "I'm your homeroom teacher, Artur Dietmar. Call me Professor Dietmar since I'm also your Herbology professor. This room is our very own meeting room, and we'll meet here once every week unless stated otherwise. Once I give you your schedules, you'll see when."

 _'He doesn't seem to be scary,'_ Harry thought, relieved.

"I was thinking of making you introduce yourselves but we're short on time so you can do that later on your own. Firstly, I'll explain a bit about Durmstrang, the school system and the changes that have taken place here this summer. I'll also tell you the rules and give you your schedules and finally show you your dorm rooms. Well, flats." Professor Dietmar smiled again at the ten children before continuing.

"Out of nearly a thousand hopeful applicants, only you ten got in," the man said, "It has nothing to do with how good you are, the amount of spells you know, or how strong you are physically. What we seek here in Durmstrang is _potential_... and you have it. The first test showed us that you can learn a spell quickly and the second spell showed us _how_ quickly your magic reacts independently, a trait that says a lot about its quality. You ten... are _special_.

During the past summer - and party last year too - huge changes have been made not only concerning the curriculum and the number of students allowed in, but also regarding our expectations of you. Do you have any questions at this point?"

"Is it true that even the upperclassmen went through a test?" a girl asked. Professor Dietmar nodded.

"Yes. Only ten students of each year remain."

"But _why_?" the girl who reminded Harry of Peppita Peppin asked, "Why such drastic reduction?"

"To better concentrate on the students that we have."

"I heard that we'll be trained to be the _best_ of Death Eaters," a boy sitting to Harry’s left suddenly said, "Is that true?"

"In time you'll know," was all Professor Dietmar said, "There are few rules in Durmstrang, and breaking them will lead to detention on first offence, suspension on second and expulsion on third. Yes, we're strict. The rules exist for good reasons and are all written in a handbook. A copy of that book is in each apartment, make sure to read it carefully. The most important rules to follow are: no skipping lessons, no fights in the hallways, no destroying school property, and no talking back to teachers. You are to never be late and never to be ill mannered. We expect your academic success to be _remarkable_."

 _'Blimey! They have more rules than mum and are stricter, too,'_ Harry thought with amazement, _'I guess dad was right. I'm sorry, Uncle Sirius. Your legacy just died.'_

"Here are your schedules," Professor Dietmar continued, and Harry's eyes widened when he got his own, "As you can see, most of the time will be spent in classrooms. Sundays are free. As you can see, every day starts at eight. Lunch is at one o'clock."

"Sports," a boy read aloud, "We have sports on Monday. Does that mean Qudditch?"

"Flying, swimming, horse riding, and fencing among other things. Three hours a week."

"How do we find the right classrooms?" someone else asked.

"For that, I'll give you these," Professor Dietmar said, setting ten rings on the table, "Take your own. These rings have a navigation charm on them. All you need to do is to tell them where you need to go, and you'll be led there."

"Even outside the school building?"

"As long as it is on Durmstrang grounds, the charm can lead you." Harry reached for a ring and stared at it for a short while; it was a simple golden brand with the Durmstrang insignia and motto engraved into it - before deciding to wear it on his right hand's middle finger.

"Oderint, dum metuant," Professor Dietmar said, "Let them hate, so long as they fear. That is the motto of Durmstrang. You all will grow up to be individuals with power and influence. People will envy you and hate you. And most importantly... they will fear you."

"Doesn't _that_ sound ominous," the boy sitting next to Harry said, "Sounds a bit like brainwashing.

"We give you the means," Professor Dietmar said with a gleam in his eyes, "To reach an end that is beyond the reach of others. Now, I think we're done here. Let's proceed to the apartment complex reserved for you ten. Follow me, please."

 _'I don't think that coming to Durmstrang was such a good idea after all,'_ Harry thought nervously, following the others out _, 'I want to talk with mum about this... I wonder how Ron is doing at Hogwarts. I bet he's in Gryffindor.'_ Although, Harry did admit that Durmstrang could offer more to him than Hogwarts. Not only with better living arrangements and a more advanced curriculum, but after graduation - _anyone_ would prefer a student of Durmstrang over anyone else.

Then again, if they were really meant to become powerful Death Eaters... wouldn't that mean a life full of politics? Joining the army early on and climbing up the ranks as well as they could? The mere thought of that made Harry cringe.

"We used to have girls' dormitory separate," Professor Dietmar explained, stopping in front of a tall white building, "But then we decided to separate students by year only, since you all will have your own flats anyway. It's easier this way. There are ten apartments in this building - one for each student. It's the place where you will live until you graduate, so take care of it. If your parents give you the permission, you can live in your flat even through the summer."

"Are they connected to the Floo Network?" a blond boy asked.

"You have a fireplace for Firecalling, but the Floo Network has been locked," Professor Dietmar said, "Now, when I call your name, you come forward. I’ll hand you a key with the number of your apartment, and you go settle down, refresh, do whatever you need to do. Today, at six in the evening, you are to wear your uniforms again and make your way towards the Main Hall where the Headmaster will officially welcome you. Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Well then, let’s begin with Petronella Albin." The girl with hair as red Harry's mum's stepped forward, and as soon as she got her key, slipped into the apartment complex.

 

"Jakob Eckart." A boy with light brown hair moved to get his key, and Harry couldn't help but think that there was something sneaky about him. Maybe it was the smug expression?

"Heidi Jöran." The girl behind Harry walked past him, and the boy wondered absently whether or not his turn would ever come. What if this all was a mistake, and after reading the list and not finding his name there, he'd be sent home? While he did think that Durmstrang was scary and he _maybe_ wanted to go home, he hadn't been completely _serious_ about it!

"Truls Kettil." The boy who had asked about sports lessons, the one with curly golden brown hair and bright blue eyes pushed past the two people standing in front of him and accepted his key.

"Björn Lennart, Clemens Marvin, Filippa Peppino, Harry Potter." Finally hearing his own name, Harry moved forward hoping that he wouldn't trip or stumble. Professor Dietmar smiled briefly at him before calling for the next of the remaining two boys.

Harry stepped into apartment number three, unsure of what to expect. What he found was a pleasantly decorated flat with a small living room to his left and a kitchenette behind it. The door to his right led to a surprisingly spacious bathroom, with a bedroom right next to it.

Overall, it was better than he had expected.

The flat's wooden floor and colours of beige and brown made the whole place seem homely. His trunk was in the bedroom, and though Harry knew that he should start unpacking, he decided to Firecall home first. He had never been particularly fond of this way of contacting people, but he didn't exactly have any other options.

"Harry?" Lily's face appeared in the flames. "How are you, love? Did you settle down yet?"

"I just got into the apartment," Harry said, "Just needed to see you."

"Is it nice? Do you need anything? I was actually just packing a few snacks for you, I was planning on sending them to you soon. Are you hungry? The owl will be there in three or two hours if I send it now."

"Not really. I'm just nervous."

"I'm sending it anyway. Tell me if you need anything else, love."

"Sure. Is dad there?" Harry asked curiously, and his mother shook her head.

"No, an urgent message arrived. He and Sirius left for a mission. Apparently- oh well, no use talking about this. Did you make any friends yet?"

"No. They all are... I don't know."

"As soon as you settle down with a routine, everything will seem better," Lily assured him, "It's Thursday tomorrow. Two days of school and then you have the weekend-"

"We have school on Saturdays. Only the Sundays are free," Harry told her, "We have time today to settle down and wander around, I guess. Tomorrow, it's slaving away."

"Make me proud, baby!"

"Not a baby," Harry said, "I’ll try."

*

_Dear Harry,_

_I heard from your darling mother that you're now in Durmstrang. I also heard that your uniform is brown. I'm so sorry to hear that, I really am. If you wish, I can talk to the headmaster and send you a set of golden robes. I'm sure that they will allow you that. No one says no to me! I'm Gilderoy Lockhart!_

_On better news: I heard that Peppita's niece is also in Durmstrang! Bad news is that she is apparently a very strict young woman who wears only one colour at a time. Dreadful, isn't it? Either way, it'd be good to make friends with her. Connections, you see, rule politics. Connections are what bring influence to individuals - no one is influential without connections._

_To ease your concerns about me, I have been alright. Fabulous, actually. I got a new haircut and am thinking of launching my own fragrance line, Lock of Hearts. I must admit that the name alone makes my heart speed up - I cannot wait to see fans from all over the world buying it!_

_How are you, Harry? Tell me everything about your life there. Your studies, your friends, your Dueling Instructor... I do not have a crush on him, I'll have you know! It's ridiculous, Harry-dear, don't even suggest it. If I was to have a crush - no, actually, I don't do crushes! Crushes are for teenagers. And even if - and I said IF - I happened to have a crush on him - or anyone at all - I could easily ask them out. So there._

_Anyway, just take care of yourself, try to get out of this silly obligation to wear brown (although I heard that during winters there's some fur involved in this uniform somehow. I approve.) and brush your teeth three times a day - a sparkling smile revealing sparkly teeth can save your life one day._

_Hugs and kisses,_

_your mentor Gildy_

Written on a light blue scented paper with dark purple ink, the letter that had been carried by a weird sparkly owl-swan hybrid was impressive in a way that it shouldn't have been. Luckily, the flashy creature had left as soon as it had finished its business and hadn't waited for a response, and Harry could only hope that no one had seen it.

The boy stared at the letter after he had finished reading it for a few long moments, before shaking his head and putting it down on the living room's table. He could ignore this. He really could. Except that maybe he should quickly tell Gildy to forget about the golden robes.

Who wore _golden_ robes anyway!

Aside from Gildy himself, of course.

Harry yawned, and resisted the urge to go to sleep. Although the huge bed looked _very_ inviting, Harry didn’t wish to risk sleeping past their intended meeting time in a few hours and make a bad impression on everyone in the Main Hall.

 _'Luckily, Thursday seems to be the shortest school day,'_ Harry thought, inspecting the schedule, _'Charms double period, Herbology double period and one hour of History of Magic. Doesn't sound too bad. Who the heck is this Duelling Instructor anyway? I don't have duelling in my schedule and I think Sirius once said that it comes later.'_

Harry moved to finally unpack his trunk, and was almost done when he heard a tap from the window. He turned to see the familiar Eagle Owl of his mother's, hovering outside, carrying what looked like a small basket. Eagerly Harry pushed the window open and took the basket of food that his mother had said she’d send him, not minding the bird that hit his head with its wing before flying away.

He began eating as soon as he had finished feeding Hedwig, and read through his schedule yet again.

Tomorrow, if he woke up at half past six, he'd have plenty of time to shower and eat and then find his way to the classroom. The first period would start at eight o'clock. Charms. _The Way of Charms 1_ by Leo Lippidi was a rather thick and heavy book, and Harry didn't much look forward to having to read it all.

But before that, the welcoming feast. At six.

He couldn't _wait_.

*

The Main Hall was _huge_. There were seven round tables reserved for students, and it was clear that classmates were to sit together, no exceptions allowed. Harry ended up sitting between two girls, both of whom were silent as they sat there, waiting for the Headmaster to make a speech.

"I believe that no one is ignorant of the changes that took place recently," Karkaroff started, "Right now, Durmstrang has only seventy students. Out of the countless young wizards and witches who wanted in, you were the ones to succeed. Congratulations."

 _'Why do I get the feeling that he's going to give us a speech similar to the one we got from Professor Dietmar?'_ Harry thought _, 'I wonder if this really is a military school.'_

"Your days here will not be easy," Karkaroff continued, "You will receive the best education that can be produced. You will receive training and knowledge. And when the time comes, you will graduate and serve the Dark Lord as you should."

_'Yep. Sounds like it.'_

"There are a few notes I wish to make known before I allow for the dinner to start."

_'Oh dear.'_

"Firstly, while every apartment has its own kitchen, you are strongly encouraged to dine here in the Main Hall. All the announcements that will be made, will be made here at dinnertime. Secondly, seventh year students are to start preparing their apprenticeship papers as soon as possible - they are to be ready by the end of October. Thirdly... no pets are allowed into the school building. If you have any pets, you either keep them in your apartment or outside somewhere."

_'Alright, wasn't too bad. Then again, even if the Dark Lord was to turn this into a military school, I doubt that they'd announce it.'_

"We live to serve the Dark Lord."

_‘Oh come on. Really?'_

"And to fight the Rebels. Never forget that."

_'Seriously.'_

"Once again, welcome to Dursmtrang, and may you make us all proud. You may now begin the feast." The man had barely finished the sentence when the tables were suddenly filled with all kinds of food. Harry, still thinking of the possible meanings of what the Headmaster had said, stared at his empty plate till he felt someone elbowing him.

"You need to eat," the girl next to him said. Harry offered her a nervous smile, unsure of what to say. Luckily, she didn't seem to expect him to talk, considering that she turned away to focus on her own meal.

"You're mothering him already?" a boy sneered, and the girl narrowed her eyes at him.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"Well, no—"

"Let's keep it that way." Harry blinked, his mouth slightly ajar. Did _all_ people here talk like that? So... _sharp_? Mean? Sneering? And there was something _strongly_ familiar about this girl.

"Peppino," Harry exclaimed, and the girl turned abruptly to stare at him.

"What?" she snapped.

"I mean, er... are you related to Peppita Peppino?" Harry asked, flushing slightly. "I, um, met her and was told that her niece—"

“The designer Peppino?” one of the other girls gasped, eyes wide.

"Attends Durmstrang?" the girl Harry had spoken to scowled, "Yes, that's me."

 “—wears one colour at a time," Harry finished hesitantly, and the girl blinked at him with surprise, her eyebrows rising high.

"So you _really_ have met her. She always keeps complaining about that, even if it’s not entirely true.”

"My tutor is a friend of hers."

"Your tutor?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Oh Merlin, is he really?" the girl sitting on Harry's other side exclaimed, making him turn to her, "I'm Heidi Jöran, by the way, and I'm a fan on Mr. Lockhart! Oh, he's _so_ mysterious and handsome!"

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, "Please call me Harry. And Gildy isn't exactly someone I'd describe mysterious and handsome." Flamboyant, loud, stupid, strange, alien... all that was far more accurate than 'mysterious and handsome'.

"I'm Filippa," Peppita Peppino's niece said, brushing her dark fringe to the side, pitch black eyes glaring at Harry, "How _would_ you describe Mr. Lockhart? I have read all his books and have to say that he is indeed impressive."

"For the sake of your life, don't answer her question," said the boy with short brown hair, sharp brown eyes and freckles. "I have two sisters and I _know_ how girls are regarding Lockhart. You say anything bad about him and they're ready to hex you to death."

"But _why_?" Harry asked with a frown "He's my tutor and most of what he does consists of telling me what to wear and what the newest fashion is."

"Dreamy," Heidi sighed, and Harry stared at her with disbelief, finding no traces of sarcasm no matter how hard he tried to find some. He cast a panicked wide-eyed look at the boy who had spoken.

"I'm Nikolai Rolan," the boy said, and even though he smiled politely, he did not manage to come across as friendly. Harry remembered him from earlier.

"What do you and Mr. Gilderoy talk about?" Heidi asked, "Does he tell you about his heroics?"

"Sometimes. Say, who's the Duelling Instructor here?"

"Two seats to the left from where the Headmaster is sitting," a boy with messy, slightly curly golden brown hair said, "Bartemius Crouch Junior. We don't start his lessons till third year, though. That's what my dad told me."

"You're Kettil, aren't you?" Heidi asked, "I think I've seen you before. Tor Kettil?"

"Truls," the boy corrected, "My name is _Truls_ Kettil."

"Close enough," Heidi said, waving her hand dismissively, "Tomorrow's the first lesson. How about we form a study group? There're just ten of us and—"

 _'I wonder if I could call them friends, now,'_ Harry thought. He felt anxious and worried, even though everything so far had gone perfectly.

There was just... something _wrong_. He wasn’t sure _what_ it was, but he couldn’t quite relax yet.

*

"If the Dark Lord doesn't change his approach, a war is inevitable," Sirius muttered, dodging a spell shot at him by a Rebel. “The fact that I’ve been sent out with a team of Aurors is strange, too. Why not just a team or two? Hell, even an entire platoon. I’m a _Lieutenant General_ , for Merlin’s sake.”

"What do you call this, then?" James asked, sending a blood-boiling curse at a woman nearby and choosing to ignore the rest of what Sirius had said. “Not a war quite yet?”

"This is just a battle. I meant a full war. Two sides, casualties, armies..."

"From where would the Rebels get an army?"

"Alliances from aboard," Sirius said, "I know for a fact that the French aren't too fond of the Dark Lord. Their minister _detests_ him."

"Any wars that happen, we will win," James said, "Have no doubt of that."

"But at what _cost_ will it be? Wars with so many strong, resourceful and cunning people fighting each other... it could be years till we win."

"What brought this on?"

"You know I'm part of the Inner Circle—"

"Hello, Captain Obvious."

"Shut up, wanker. What I'm getting at is that people, well, _talk_."

"Uh, let me get this straight, Siri..."

"Listen," Sirius sighed, grabbing James's arm and hauling him behind a tree for a moment of safety to explain what was on his mind, "if this war lasts for longer than seven years, chances are that Harry will end up fighting."

"Fuck," James hissed, finally realizing the problem, "But hey, there's no war yet, but even if there will be-"

"There _will_ be."

"How can you be so _sure_?"

"I told you, people talk," Sirius said. "Bellatrix especially is fond of sharing her conclusions, and as much as I hate it— she's usually right."

"And she says that there's a war coming?" James asked.

"She says that the Rebels are growing in numbers. And that they're forming an army. Do you remember the short war that took place when the Dark Lord came to power? Remember the times of terror when black letters were a daily occurrence?"

"There's nothing we can do about it, though, is there? If war starts, we'll be just pawns, you know."

"I know," Sirius sighed tiredly, "I'm just... worried about Harry, you know. If the rumours about Durmstrang are true, that means that eventually he'll be where I am now."

"What?" James asked, completely caught off guard. "You... he _what_? What the hell are you talking about!"

"I did tell you that there're rumours about Durmstrang being turned into a military school?" Sirius started, just when a cutting curse hit a branch nearby. The man frowned and shot a killing curse back. "It's true."

"True! You mean... Oh _Merlin_."

"Rumour has it that the Dark Lord occasionally disguises himself and goes to test the older students personally. That's something he used to do, and I doubt that he'd change that just because the system changed at Durmstrang."

"Older students? _How_ old?"

"Sixth and seventh years. Harry's safe, of course. He's too young to be noticed yet. Besides, he's always been a bit of a hard to notice, yeah?"

"I'm not too sure about that," James said hesitantly, "There will be only ten students in each year. It's impossible to vanish into the crowd if there _is_ no crowd."

"Especially if Lockhart really starts forcing Harry to wear glittery robes," Sirius grinned, "Imagine that!"

"Lockhart," James grimaced, "What a joke, that one. We should get Harry another tutor, really. If only I could make Lily agree with me on _that_!"

*

That evening, Harry found himself sitting on Filippa Peppino's couch, watching Heidi paint Petronella Albin's - the third girl of their 'generation' - nails green. The colour supposedly went well with her pale green eyes. In all honesty, Harry wasn't sure exactly _why_ he had been invited. Surely, they wouldn't spend all the time asking him about Gildy, right?

"I want to be a designer like my aunt one day," Filippa said, tying her long black hair into a bun, "I want to design and sew clothes, and I want you to model for me."

"Um..."

"Look," Petronella started, "She could ask you, but I think she'd just wear you down in time and you'd agree anyway. You're just saving some time."

"Why _me_?" Harry asked, honestly curious. He couldn’t quite muster up the courage to ask _how_ she knew that about the Italian girl already.

"Because the other boys are pricks," Filippa declared, "Besides, it's sad that there are only three girls out of ten students. You'll even out the number."

"I'm not a girl," Harry said, "I'm not even girly."

"Granted," Heidi said, "That Italian guy on the other hand..."

"Lorenzo Tancredi," Filippa cut in, "And just because his hair is rather long doesn't make him girly at all."

 _'Why does their chatter remind me of how mum and Mrs. Weasley sometimes talk?'_ Harry thought, _'I need to get out of here.'_

"I'm feeling a bit sleepy," Harry said, standing up, "I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Half past six pick me up, yes?" Filippa called after him, "We'll go have breakfast together!"

"Why so early?"

"Just in case."

"Alright," Harry replied, "See you."

Filippa's apartment was a floor above his own, and in a matter of seconds Harry was in his own flat, finally getting the opportunity to relax. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Harry crawled into his bed, feeling exhausted but content.

His first day had been pretty good - he had made a few friends and no enemies. The schedule seemed reasonable even if there were lessons on Saturdays as well.

Overall, Harry was happy.

And this is how his life in Durmstrang began and continued for quite a while: peacefully. Even though Harry had been raised surrounded by magic, there just seemed to be _so much_ that he didn't know, and time passed by fast when he was busy nearly every day.

Charms class with Professor Elis was most probably Harry's favourite - the subject was enjoyable and somewhat easy. Even reading the school books and doing homework was fun for him when the subject was charms. Potions, on the other hand... much to Filippa's devastation, Harry absolutely _sucked_ at potions.

"It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad," Nikolai once remarked, "And unexplainable. How did you make a diluted calming draught explode anyway? It's almost all water!"

"Talent manifests in many ways," Harry had replied evenly, unfazed. Professor Bertham had stared at the melting vials and then closed his eyes, making a strange sound that reminded Harry of a kicked mouse.

Dark Arts lessons were perhaps the most interesting. Professor Ulrich Dietmar - the brother of their homeroom teacher - was a man full of hero-worship towards the Dark Lord and was always willing to retell a tale of the 'good old days' when he had fought in the short war when the Dark Lord had first risen to power.

He told them about the incantations, the shields used, the tactics and strategies... and while he taught them only the most basic of spells, Harry wasn't disappointed. It made him curious, though, to know that the man who had achieved all that was the one whose wand's brother was currently in Harry's hand.

"There is so _much_ of the will involved in a spell," Professor Ulrich had said, "Emotion fuels the spell. Never think that you have to _stop_ feeling emotions. I'm telling you this now because, in the future, you'll be told to not feel. That is wrong. Rage, joy, love, grief... different spells become stronger through different emotions."

"Such as?" Jakob Eckart, a boy who seemed to have a small knowing smile fixed permanently on his face, asked, "Any examples?"

"Healing spells," Professor Ulrich said, "The Killing Curse. The Curciatus Curse. It's not just a matter of focusing and spitting out the incantation. You have to _feel_."

What gave Harry a bit of a tough time, aside from potions, was transfiguration. It wasn't that the subject was tough, no. He could do his homework just fine on his own, actually, and he didn't have trouble understanding the book. The teacher, Professor Kay, however, was a bit bad at explaining things. Maybe it was only _he_ who found it hard to understand the man – the others seemed to understand him well enough.

The class that Harry absolutely _loved_ was sports. He adored flying and swimming, and even though he had never tried horse riding or archery before, he did well enough to enjoy the activities.

Life went on in Durmstrang and weeks passed. All ten first year students were growing rather close, although Harry mostly spent time either with the girls or Nikolai. The Russian boy was a complicated person and he seemed to find reasons to make fun of everyone within sight.

Things didn't change till the end of November, two weeks before the start of the Christmas holiday.

*

"Look," Truls Kettil said, "It's just a flying competition. Just to see who's the fastest. It'll be fair since all the brooms school lends to us are the same."

"It's Sunday, and I know that you've already finished your homework," Harry continued, looking at Nikolai, who scowled.

"I don't fly."

"Pansy," Lorenzo Tancredi said dismissively, "Count me in, though. I'll make you cry uncle."

"Like you _could_ ," Truls shot back.

"What's the point of this competition?" Petronella asked, "It's not like any of you can try out for the Quidditch team yet anyway!"

"It's for our own enjoyment," Clemens Marvin said, "Better fly on Sundays than rewrite the potions essay for the seventh time."

"Seventh?" Harry gaped, and the blond shrugged, not offering any explanations.

"Look," Filippa cut in, scowling, "All this testosterone is irritating me. Be macho somewhere else."

"You just can't stand being in a crowd where you're not the centre of attention," Truls stated, "You-"

"I'm reading Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed," Filippa interrupted.

"That means: think twice before finishing what you were about to say," Harry explained with a grin, "Either way, let's just go. We can't spend the whole day convincing others."

"Right you are, Harry," Björn Lennart, whose hair was as red as Ron's and eyes of almost the same shade, said.

"I thought you didn't like flying," Lorenzo said, looking at Björn, who shrugged.

"I like watching," the boy replied, "Much safer. Besides, I like betting even more."

"Shall we get going, then?" Truls asked, "Fifth years have practice in two hours."

"How do you know that?" Clemens asked as the group started to move towards one of the Quidditch pitches, "Upperclassmen don't generally speaking talk with us."

"Truls _Kettil_ here," Truls replied, "Nobody ignores me."

"You just reminded me of Gildy," Harry shuddered, "Lockhart, I mean."

"Why do you call him _Gildy_?" Truls asked.

"Used to it, I guess. He pestered me all summer and wouldn't respond if I didn't call him that. Guess the habit stuck."

"What a bad habit."

The boys had finally reached the broom storage, and eagerly each grabbed a Nimbus before racing to the Quidditch pitch.

"Pity we can't play a game," Clemens said.

"How's the school's Quidditch team kept in shape?" Harry asked, "I mean, there aren't really that many who can play, are there?"

"The school's team plays against other schools' teams and sometimes even small official teams," Truls explained, "They've been doing well - they got last year a new seeker. Viktor Krum. They say he's a _real_ talent."

"Isn't he a third year?"

"Yeah."

"He got in when he was a second year?"

"Yeah."

"Come on guys," Lorenzo called, "Less talk more flying!"

"Prepare to lose," Clemens said, and Harry grinned. It felt weird - but _awesome_ \- to be with the other boys and feel like they were really _friends_. They _noticed_ him. Maybe they were like Ron and Draco who noticed Harry only when he was present. Maybe the other boys would forget about Harry if he wasn't there to remind them of his existence... but right now, they were with him. Noticed him. And it felt amazing.

Flying with friends was different from flying with his dad or with Sirius. It was more... free. Wild and less controlled. It was thrilling.

"Careful, Truls," Björn called from the ground, "You don't want to end up falling of your broom dodging birds, yeah?"

"I'm going to be alright," Truls replied with a grin, spinning upside down on his broom again. Harry, flying nearby, shook his head.

"Be careful."

"I'm alwa— _whoa_!"

Later on, Harry couldn't remember what exactly had happened, in which order, and how much time it took. All he remembered was that Truls's grip on the broom had faltered, and that it had taken Harry an instant to realize that if the other boy was to fall from that height, he could die. Harry vaguely remembered angling his own broom, remembered flying so fast that the wind seemed cutting, and he somewhat remembered colliding with the falling boy. He remembered the panicked screams of his fellow classmates and desperately hoped that he had managed to at least slow down Truls's fall with his own body.

After that, there was pain and darkness.

*

There was a sense of deja  vu when Harry woke up. As if he had felt that damp coldness before, as if he had seen this empty train station...

He _had_.

Eyes widening, Harry sat up, looking around him. Yes, he was indeed in that same strange train station that he had ended up in during the entrance exam over half a year ago. And it was exactly just as dark, cold and damp as he remembered. Had it been raining or something?

"Ah, you're back," a familiar voice said, and Harry turned abruptly to see the old man again, "Didn't expect to see you again for a very long time."

"I don't know what happened," Harry said, deciding to keep his cool. There was no need to panic and act like a fool twice in front of the same person, now was there? "Who did you say you were?"

"I didn't," the old man replied, blue eyes twinkling, "My name is Albus."

"I'm Harry," Harry said, "Can you tell me what this place is?"

"It's a train station," Albus said, "There have been more trains coming and going through, lately. You wouldn't know the reason?"

"Um, like what?"

"Is there a war, where you come from?"

"No," Harry said, "There isn't. But some people think that there'll be soon."

"Terrible," Albus muttered, "Wars never bring anything but grief to everyone involved."

"You know about wars?"

"I was in a few."

"What were they like?" Harry asked, curiously, "All we're told about wars is that they were glorious."

"There is no glory in wars with no noble cause," Albus replied, the twinkle in his eyes dimming, "Tell me, my boy, who is the current Minister of Magic?"

"Well, no one really," Harry said, "All is ruled by the Dark Lord."

"What?" There was evident shock in the exclamation, and Harry felt a twinge of nervous fear when he saw the old man's expression. "The _Dark Lord_?"

"The Dark Lord Voldemort," Harry clarified hesitantly.

"What year is it there?" Albus asked, an odd look on his face.

"Nineteen ninety-one."

"Good _grief_." The words were full of emotion – disbelief, sorrow, shock. _Horror_. Harry could see the old man becoming, if possible, older in an instant. "So long."

"W-well..."

"And Tom took over. Of course, with no one to stop him. He was always a resourceful one, he was."

"Tom?" Harry asked hesitantly. Albus gave him a look that was void of all mirth and twinkle.

"That Lord Voldemort of yours. His name is Tom Riddle."

" _Tom_?" Harry repeated, baffled, "But that's... that's a _cat's_ name or something!" A small reluctant smile returned to Albus's face, and the old man sighed.

"What has he done? Are there any Muggles alive?" he asked.

"Plenty," Harry replied, "Billions, in fact. They're just kept separate from the Wizarding world, and most schools don't allow muggleborns in anymore. I heard they used to. My mum's a muggleborn, you see."

"You're...?"

"A half-blood. Much like the Dark Lord."

"You know of his blood?" Albus asked, surprised, "And yet people still follow him?"

"I think there's more than just blood to it," Harry replied slowly, "I mean, I don't think that most of them really _care_ about blood that much. As long as the person has power and money, they can look past the heritage."

"And you said that there might be a war coming?"

"It's just a rumour, though. I heard my parents talking about it. The Rebels - they're a group of people still fighting the Dark Lord's Death Eaters - are, I don't know, becoming more of a danger I guess."

"And your parents are on which side?"

"Dark Lord's side, of course. My dad is an Auror in the service of the Dark Lord."

"The world has changed," Albus said, shaking his head. After that he fell silent, and stayed quiet for a very long time. Harry, after few minutes of waiting for the old man to speak, decided to walk around in the train station. He wondered how he could go back. Last time it had just happened... would now be the same?

Another train went past Harry, and the boy shivered, looking after the vehicle. Had it been empty? He hadn't really seen anyone, and yet there was the feeling that it _wasn't_ completely void of... people. Maybe he should check one from the inside?

"You don't want to do that," Albus said as soon as Harry approached one of the trains. "They're not there just for fun."

"Where do they go?" Harry asked.

"I told you, didn't I? Nowhere. The most of them go to Nowhere."

"Where is nowhere?"

"Elsewhere." The cheerful reply made Harry give up his questions - he really wasn't in the mood for this. He wanted to go—

And suddenly, Harry remembered why he was unconscious in the first place. He had fallen off his broom somehow! Oh yes, to save Truls. What happened? Did he succeed? He'd have to wake up... he couldn't spend _all_ his time at the train station, now could he? However, he was yet to figure out how to leave.

"Are you sure that none of these trains will take me back?" Harry asked, and Albus nodded.

"None of them will take you where you want to go."

"Where would they take me, then?"

"That's a tale for another day," the old man said and smiled tiredly, "Your reflection is wavering, young Harry. Soon, it will be your time to go again."

"Does anyone else ever visit?" Harry asked, "Don't you get lonely?"

But again, much like last time, he suddenly could only see and not hear, and he couldn't see either.

*

Pain. That's what Harry felt when he woke up. And then he felt someone gripping his hand.

"Wha-?"

"Harry?" a vaguely familiar voice said urgently, "Harry? Are you awake? NURSE! _NUUURSE_!"

"Ester Siegbert," a female voice - Filippa? - supplied.

"ESTER! NURSE ESTER! Harry's awake!"

"Sort of."

"He's _alive_!"

"He's not comatose!"

"Move aside," a female voice ordered and Harry, eyes still closed tightly, could hear his friends shuffling aside. The nurse's hands were cold and her wand was sharp as she poked and prodded and muttered incantations to check on him. "He seems to be alright. Mr. Potter, can you hear me?"

" _Yeeesh_."

"Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Dizzy," Harry mumbled, finally trying to open his eyes, "Head hurts. Chest hurts. Shoulders too."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Mmm? Truls?"

"Yes, you saved Mr. Kettil. He has been healed already. By colliding into him while still somewhat hanging onto your broom, you managed to slow down the fall. You both broke a few bones although the initial impact hit you, not him. Either way, you'll both be right as rain soon enough. And let this be a lesson to you two!"

"Trains?" Harry mumbled, not quite listening to what the woman was saying. There seemed to be something else, something important in his mind; a memory trying to push its way through the haze of dizziness and confusion. "Station...." Yes, there had been a station... and emptiness... and cold...

"Harry?" a voice Harry now recognized to be Heidi's said, and with a groan Harry finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to look at his friends. The person holding his hand was Truls, who was pale and wide-eyed, staring at Harry with concern.

"I'm alright," Harry rasped, "Are _you_? Is everything okay? What time is it?"

"Still Sunday," Filippa said, "Half past six." Harry nodded, and glanced at Truls who was still staring at him anxiously. He then looked around, taking in the sight of the hospital wing wherein he was.

"We'll leave now," Björn said suddenly, "If Truls wants to say thank you, I know he'd rather do that alone. Take care, you two."

"What you did was really brave, Harry," Petronella said softly, letting her small delicate hand rest on Harry's shoulder for a few moments, "Stupid, but brave. See you soon."

"We've got sports tomorrow," Lorenzo said, "Maybe you should ask Nurse Ester to give you a pass to skip that?"

"Just get out," Truls snapped, scowling at the loitering friends "We'll catch up with you guys-"

"And girls," Heidi added.

"-and girls later." Still feeling slightly out of it Harry watched how his other classmates left the hospital wing, leaving him alone with Truls. The boy in question looked at Harry for a few seconds before returning to sit by the bed again.

"Are you _really_ alright?" Harry asked.

"I am," Truls replied, the usually bright cerulean eyes looking dark with guilt, "Why did you do it?"

"You almost _died_ ," Harry said, "Look, I knew what I was doing, sort of. Better the two of us injured than one dead. Right? At least now we will both be eventually fine."

"I owe you my life."

"Oh come _on_..."

"An honest-to-God life debt," Truls said, tugging nervously at his golden brown curls, "Thank you, Harry."

"It's... er... well... you're welcome," Harry muttered, flushing. Truls's hand found his again, and Harry wondered if now, after these few months, he could _finally_ call someone a best friend.

Elsewhere, the Dark Lord Voldemort had just entered a wand shop in search of a second wand.


	4. Chapter 4

Ollivander looked up from the floor he was sweeping when he heard the door of his shop opening. When he saw the tall, dark-haired man who had just stepped into his shop, the old wandmaker held back a reaction of surprise and bowed deeply instead.

"My Lord," Ollivander said warily, "How can I be of help?" It wasn't unusual for the Dark Lord to go wandering alone– he was fond of solitude, that much was known. And while everyone was wary of his magical prowess and intelligence, it was the unpredictable personality that truly made his mere presence dangerous. No one could tell whether or not he was about to murder someone or promote them in his ranks.

Then again, not many would actually recognize their commander unless he so allowed. The man knew of magic Ollivander himself couldn’t begin to imagine, and hiding his identity in ways that defied logic was hardly a feat to him.

"No retelling me what kind of wand I have? As far as I know, you're yet to end that habit," the man said, voice a mixture between boredom and amusement, "I'm seeking a second wand, Ollivander."

Had it been any other person, the wandmaker would have asked for reasons– the request was rather unusual. But one didn't ask the _Dark Lord_ about his reasons. It just wasn't done. "A specific wand?"

"Decades ago," the Dark Lord started, "when I bought my first wand. Remember what you told me?"

"That it was made of—"

"That it has a brother wand."

" _Ah_ ," Ollivander said, a troubled expression making an appearance.

"I trust that you will be giving me that wand now," the Dark Lord said, "For out of all wands, only it can work as well as the one I have now."

"My Lord," Ollivander started hesitantly, "There is a slight problem."

"And what would that be?" the Dark Lord asked, red eyes darkening with sudden surge of anger, "Bring the wand. I'm sure it will work."

"I do not doubt that, my Lord," Ollivander replied, "The wand would indeed work. Alas, you see, the wand is… gone."

"Gone? _Sold_? You mean to tell me," the Dark Lord hissed, stepping closer towards the wandmaker who shuddered and resisted the urge to flee, "You mean to tell me that out there, someone has the _brother_ of my wand? _My_ wand?"

"Y-yes, my Lord."

"Who?"

"M-my Lord…"

" _Who_?"

"He's eleven years old, my Lord," Ollivander said in a shaky voice, "He's just a _child_."

"The only reason why I am yet to take action against you and your insolence, Ollivander, is due to your superior wand making abilities," the Dark Lord said silkily, "That does not, however, make you an exception in my book. Continue this _insubordination_ and I shall have to… _do_ something about it. The name. _Now_."

"The Potter heir," Ollivander finally revealed, "Harry Potter."

*

It was odd how, even with the piles of homework that had previously seemed so unconquerable, Harry still managed to finish them in one evening and still have the time to think too much. He had managed to get the permission to leave the Hospital Wing, but Nurse Ester had insisted on giving him a note to excuse him from sports on Monday. Harry didn't want that– he didn't want to have free time, because free time made him _think_ , and all he could think about was _war_. And the train station. And _Albus_.

Could it be that it _wasn't_ a dream? But what else could it be? A vision? Hardly!

He wouldn't be in this situation had he bothered to wear the manticore skin undershirt. No, _really_. Had he put it on, even a fall like that wouldn't have hurt him as much as it did. Maybe. Possibly. Then again, if he _had_ put it on and been alright after a fall like that, the others would have asked _questions_ and Harry would have had to give them some kind of answers. And all this… friendship thing and the warm feelings it brought with it aside… Harry wasn't fond of the idea of telling _anyone_ about the manticore shirt.

It was a simple precaution, really. Not that he didn't _trust_ his friends. He was just being careful.

Maybe he should just keep wearing it and play dumb if someone figured it out? Not to say that Durmstrang wasn't safe– it was, really. The fights between students that happened were always between the older students and Harry's classmates tended to stay out of them. Well, with the exception of Björn who found it hard to resist betting on anything even remotely interesting.

Tomorrow, the day would start with History of Magic. Harry didn't mind history as a subject– he liked it quite a lot, actually. There was more to history than just Goblin wars and house-elf rebellions. There was more than Merlin's legend and the history of spells. It was the story of Europe – the forging of the magical Europe. And yet every attempt to read a bit ahead in the history book ended up with Harry thinking about the train station.

 _'I wonder if I can find any information about it in the library,'_ Harry thought. He could also ask his parents– his mother might know– but he didn't want to. What if it really was just a reoccurring dream and he'd end up making a fool out of himself by asking about it? Surely he wasn't going to let a simple dream scare him? Besides, it had happened only twice. Even though the dreams were realistic, they were hardly anything to get worried about.

The following day Harry got something _else_ to worry about.

His… friends. There seemed to be a slight change in dynamics of the group, and Harry wasn't sure _what_ to think of it. It wasn't that their behaviour had changed, not exactly. There just seemed to be some sort of distance growing between them, and it reminded Harry quite painfully of how he had grown apart from Ron and Draco, who probably didn't even remember Harry anymore at all. It made Harry yearn for his story-books again, if only to chase away the awful feeling he was getting.

Truls sat by his side all the time and yet hardly spoke two words to him, and Harry felt _ridiculous_ for thinking that saving the other boy's life could have made them best friends. It had _seemed_ like it in the beginning– they all had been there for him in the Hospital Wing… So what had changed overnight? Could it be that his classmates had talked with each other and decided to ignore him? But they weren't _really_ ignoring him, were they? Maybe they had just decided that Harry wasn't worth being friends with? But _why_? He saved Truls's life! And the initial aftermath had gone well enough! So why this kind of behaviour _now_?

Plagued with such thoughts, Harry couldn't bring himself to even attempt starting a conversation. It was odd how he could hang out for months with the same people, and think that he knew them, but then suddenly realize that they were strangers. That was why, after showing the sports instructor– Madam Wieland– the pass excusing him from the lesson, Harry didn't stick around. He didn't feel like returning to his flat either, and so he headed towards the library instead.

Durmstrang’s library was perhaps his favourite place in the entire school. It was clean and quiet, with an air of stillness that made Harry's heart beat faster with delight. The librarian looked up from her desk, didn't smile at Harry– only stared– 'til the boy walked past her and headed towards his favourite corner after grabbing a few books. Eventually he settled down there to read Beauty and the Beast, determined to forget everything surrounding him.

*

The Dark Lord Voldemort was curious.

How could he _not_ be? Someone– some _child_ out there– had been chosen by the brother of his wand. What kind of child _was_ Harry Potter? Of course Voldemort knew of the existence of a Potter family, but as far as he could tell, the patriarch of that household wasn't a high-ranking Death Eater and, therefore, not really worth being noticed. It didn't take the Dark Lord long to find out that the boy was studying at Durmstrang of all places– _Durmstrang_. The thought was strangely pleasing; at least the child must have _some_ potential.

He didn't inform Igor of his visit to the school. Why should he? He had the right to go wherever he wanted to, and if someone had a differing opinion, they were welcome to express it… and then suffer the consequences, of course.

"Point me," the Dark Lord whispered, holding his wand at the tip of his fingers. It twirled twice before finally stopping, pointing at the direction where this Harry Potter would be.

Voldemort was yet to decide what he was actually going to _do_ once he found the boy. He could get rid of him, but he didn't think that he'd do that. The Dark Lord wasn't against killing children, but doing so at school grounds with no reason wasn't good considering his public image– an act such as murdering an heir of a pureblood family just so he could get his wand would surely make some people betray him, and he really couldn't afford that right now.

Perhaps later.

For now, he'd just see what kind of creature was actually worthy of a wand equal to his own. Was the child exceptionally talented? Was his magical signature stronger than average? Was he unusually intelligent? The Dark Lord entered the library, not minding the librarian who paled and hastily stood up to bow deeply – she recognized him; everyone at Durmstrang _should_ – as he made his way to where his wand was pointing him to. Finally, he reached a corner where he saw the boy that must be this… _Harry Potter_.

The child was rather scrawny, with thick, messy black hair and pale skin. He was curled up on a sofa with a book on his lap and seemed to be completely focused on it. Why wasn't the boy in class? Was he _skipping_? Why was he so _small_ anyway; surely not all first years were _that_ tiny? The hunched back didn't speak of confidence and the messy hair didn't show signs of proper grooming. Was this… _whelp_ really deserving of his wand?

The Dark Lord was displeased. He stood silently; taking in the sight of the boy he was already deeming to be careless and weak. Perhaps his intelligence could make up for it? Except that the book he was holding wasn't even an educational one, but a fairytale. Did this Harry Potter have even _one_ redeeming quality? Why should the Dark Lord spare him after all? Surely no one would miss this little ghostly creature.

And then the boy looked up, and the Dark Lord almost took a step back– the vivid green eyes reminded him of the Killing Curse, and the look was so intense that, suddenly, the man was certain that there weren't many who could look this boy in the eyes for longer than a few seconds.

"How can I help you?" Potter asked softly, and the Dark Lord realized with disbelief that the foolish child didn't even _recognize_ him.

"I was merely observing," he replied evenly from where he was standing, "You're reading… a fairytale. How come you're not in class?"

"Sports. Nurse told me to not go today."

"Why not use the time beneficially, then?"

"I don't understand," the boy said, appearing suddenly rather bored. It irritated the Dark Lord– no one looked bored in _his_ presence. He wasn't _boring_! "I like fairytales. They keep me happy. Stories in general are enjoyable. Far more pleasant than people."

"Not a social person, then?" the Dark Lord asked, wondering why he was even talking to this brat anymore, "I see no benefit in reading fiction. Surely something else is not only enjoyable but also useful." Come on. One tiny redeeming quality in the brat's personality so the Dark Lord could give himself a reason to let the boy live.

"Does it matter?" Potter shot back, before shaking his head and looking down at his book, fringe hiding his face almost completely, "You never do anything that is enjoyable that doesn't have an academic value of some kind? Like, some people drink two cups of coffee in the morning. Why two? Because they're thirsty? They could drink water for that. To stay awake thanks to the caffeine? There're pepper up potions available. So why coffee? Because they desire it even though it's not particularly beneficial."

"And _your_ desire is to waste time reading stories?" Voldemort asked with disbelief, yet feeling reluctantly fascinated. It had been a while since someone hadn't known who he was, and therefore talked back to him. Not that he _enjoyed_ people talking back to him– actually, he hated it. And yet, coming from this child, it wasn’t quite _as_ annoying. Perhaps it was because the boy wasn't really talking _back_ to him as much as just involving himself in a conversation where he had a differing opinion. "Is that wise?"

*

"Is that wise?"

Harry stared at the stranger, wondering how anyone could ever think that stories were a waste of time. Oh _sure_ , he had heard it before, but this man seemed to be completely… not understanding it. As if he honestly couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to read a fictional story that didn't provide any facts.

"Who are you?" Harry finally asked, and the red-eyed man rolled his eyes before shooting him an irritated glare.

"Right now, that's irrelevant," he replied, and Harry couldn't help but shake his head at what he thought to be childishness. The man appeared to be around his thirties– why did he act like a brat? "Now answer my question."

"A _spoiled_ pureblood brat," Harry muttered aloud, shaking his head.

"What?" the man asked, rising an eyebrow, "Do tell what _that_ was about."

"Just thought that you remind me of someone. He's a pureblood, and a bit… spoiled," Harry said reluctantly, unsure of what the man's reaction could be. Would he be angry? But no, while the man did, indeed, narrow his eyes and glare, he didn't really seem _angry_.

"And _you're_ not a spoiled pureblood brat, then?"

"Half-blood," Harry admitted, knowing that his mother would cringe at him confessing his blood status to a stranger, "And I'm pretty sure I'm not spoiled. To answer your question, though, I think it's just as wise as doing anything else at this point. It's half past twelve, my next lesson starts at two. Even if I had any homework I'm yet to do– and I _don't_ have– I could do it later."

"This conversation is boring me," the man said suddenly, apparently losing all interest, "You tire me."

"You're free to go," Harry replied sharply, "Your absence will not be a source of grief for me. Actually, if you leave, I could just return to my reading."

"You're terribly rude," the man observed, "What if I was to… _hurt_ you? What if your rudeness would make me angry and I—"

"That's a hypothetical situation," Harry cut in, "And I don't think that you'd do that. Not now, at least. You don't even have your wand out. Besides, you were being just as rude, if not ruder. Who tells someone else that they're boring?"

"I do."

"Well, yes. My point."

"I fail to see your point," the man said neutrally, "You're _strange_."

"And _you_ are giving me a headache," Harry snapped. Heavens, this man was worse than Uncle Sirius on a bad day! "So what did you want again?"

"I said," the man sighed, "that I was merely observing."

"Why would you observe _me_?" Harry asked with a frown, "Who are you anyway?"

"That's irrele—"

"You tell me your name or I'll give you one."

"You can't just give people names," the man said and Harry was strongly reminded of Draco when the blond had been four and Harry had told him that no, Harry's birthday didn't mean that Draco Malfoy had the right to do what he wanted. "Look, I'm probably older than—"

"You don't act like it," Harry cut in again with a displeased expression, "You don't act like an adult at all. I'll call you… I think I'll call you Tom." Where had that name come from? It was as if someone had mentioned the name 'Tom' to Harry before, but the boy couldn't really remember. Either way, the red-eyed stranger's eyes widened, and he tilted his head to the side with a very peculiar expression.

"Why?" the man asked. "Why… Tom?"

"You look like a Tom," Harry claimed, "And until you tell me your real name, that's what I'm going to call you."

*

There had to be something about this brat. There _had_ to be. There were simply too many little things that the Dark Lord had noticed, and he didn't really believe in coincidences.

He could have, eventually, moved on and perhaps even forgotten about the brother wand issue. He could have forgotten about the eyes that were so vividly reminding him of the Killing Curse. He could have ignored the boy's reluctantly refreshing– and _annoying_ – manners and possibly even the fact that the boy had named him Tom. Which was, coincidentally, his real name. The one _no one_ was supposed to know.

But _all_ of these little signs together? No. There had to be something. And that's why he couldn't kill the brat yet– he was like a tiny, remotely interesting puzzle.

"Did you fall asleep on your feet?" the boy asked, "My godfather does that sometimes. Mum says it's because he's a head case. Listen, if you're a bit slow, that's alright. Just sit down. Don't think on your feet or you’ll fall down and injure yourself."

 _‘Slo— what?'_ Voldemort wasn't a man easily surprised. He was the one who surprised others – usually with a curse of some kind. But here he was now, starting to feel like a fool in front of a child that couldn't possibly be any more brilliant than _he_ had been decades ago. "What if I cursed you now, for your insolence?"

"I'd rat on you," Potter replied promptly.

"Ah, but what if I told you that I'm the Dark Lord?" Voldemort asked, with a small smile twisting his lips, "What would you do then?"

"I wouldn't believe you," Potter said calmly, "I mean, come on. Why would the Dark Lord himself be suddenly sneaking into the library of Durmstrang to have a conversation with a first year student about _stories_? It just doesn't make sense. He's probably out there doing something about the war."

"The war?" the Dark Lord hissed sharply while deciding reluctantly to not inform the boy of his identity, "What do you know of _that_?"

"It's just a feeling I've got," Potter replied, "And maybe I've heard rumours. There's a war coming, supposedly."

"What kind of rumours have you heard?"

"Just that the Rebels are gathering an army and that it means war, eventually."

"War would have been inevitable no matter what," Voldemort said, straightening up and looking down at the child with a sneer, "Get a hobby. Thinking about politics at your age is unhealthy."

"You think I _like_ politics?" Potter exclaimed, "Look, I told you I don't like _people_. And politics is _all about_ people."

"You're boring me again. I think I shall leave."

"Then _go_. I'll try to not cry– since I obviously will be devastated. That's how much I liked you."

"Are you _always_ this rude?" the Dark Lord snapped. Potter smiled at him sweetly, face bordering angelic in its innocence.

"No," the boy admitted, "You're just special."

*

Harry watched as the man – _Tom_ – growled and turned and left. He didn't know what it was about this person but Harry felt almost compelled to be as terrible as possible. Tom's behaviour didn't encourage Harry to treat him like he'd treat other adults.

It was strange. It was more than just strange– Harry, generally speaking, was almost fearful of behaving rudely towards others. Shy, is what his mother would say. And yet with Tom, he had acted so unlike himself that it, frankly, confused Harry. Should he just _forget_ this strange man? It was unlikely that they were going to meet again.

Either way, it was time for lunch now anyway– the time was almost one o'clock. The others would be now either showering or already making their way towards the dining hall– Harry didn't think that anyone really had the time to cook for themselves. Besides, the elves made delicious meals.

Harry wasn't sure how he'd behave with the others now that he had picked up on the change of atmosphere. He still didn't understand _why_ it had happened, but he wasn't going to ask. So at lunch, he sat quietly between Filippa and Heidi again, listening to the others talking about one thing or another while feeling like an outsider.

 _'Actually, the most fun I had today was when reading, before Tom appeared,'_ Harry thought bitterly. Not bearing to be where he was anymore, he stood up abruptly, startling the others. Not looking at anyone, Harry grabbed his bag and headed out of the dining hall. The classroom of Transfiguration, where he was heading now, wasn't that far away, and so Harry arrived there in a matter of few minutes. It wasn't long after that he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Why did you leave?" Truls asked, trying to catch his breath. He sat down next to Harry and focused on calming down.

"I didn't feel comfortable there," Harry replied warily, "Why did you follow?" His question made Truls tense, and after a few long moments of silence, the boy spoke again.

"The others said that we need to talk."

"Not really."

"But _yes_. Don't you see? Harry, I owe you my _life_."

"I know," Harry replied, heart beating rapidly, "I know that you do."

"I haven't told my parents about it," Truls admitted, "They won't be pleased."

"Is it really a big thing?" Harry asked, "Ever since this morning, I feel like everything has changed. As if I'm not… included anymore."

"No!" Truls exclaimed, eyes wide, "That's _not_ it! I mean, _yes_ , it is something big, and everything– well, not really _everything_ – has changed. But you're definitely _not_ excluded from anything!"

"Then what? Why are you guys, I don't know, behaving like you can hardly look at me."

"I owe you my life," Truls repeated again, "I basically owe myself to you. Which pretty much makes me… well, it makes you my owner. And that means that—"

"Ignore it," Harry interrupted, "I don't want to _own_ anyone. I just want to have friends, Truls."

"But—"

"Look, one day I might need your help or something. And you'll help me. 'Til then, we'll both pretend that you owe me nothing. You don't even need to tell your parents."

"That's very kind of you," a new voice joined in, and Petronella sat down next to Harry, making the boy only now aware of the fact that the others had arrived, "Usually when someone owes someone else a Life Debt, the person it's owed to likes to brag. Especially if a Pureblood owes them."

"Well, I don't care about stuff like that," Harry said with a scowl, "But why would you suddenly behave differently?"

"You really don't get it?" Nikolai asked, eyes wide, "Look, we all used to be equal. Owed nothing to anyone and no one owed anything to us. Now Truls owes you his life, and—"

"But what does it change?"

"Look," Filippa started, "I'll be the one to offer the short, brutal and honest answer. All groups have a hierarchy, whether or not they're aware of it. We used to be equal. Now we're not. Why? Because you own a human life, and that– even if no one but us knows– puts you above us in hierarchy simply because now you have something that the rest of us don’t."

"That's stupid."

"No, it—"

"It _is_ ," Harry insisted, "What happened between Truls and I is in no way anyone else's business, so I don't understand why everyone else should even have an opinion on the matter. There's no reason for it to affect anyone else but the two directly involved."

"For a pureblood, your thoughts are weird," Nikolai said, shaking his head. Harry was already opening his mouth to tell the others that he was, in fact, a half-blood, when he decided against that. He wasn't _ashamed_ of being what he was, but there was still that new kind of reluctance.

"I don't care if you all think I'm weird," Harry said, and he knew that he wasn't completely honest when he said that. He _did_ care. Actually, he cared quite a lot. He didn't _want_ to be considered weird, an oddity.

"How long are your Transfiguration essays?" Clemens suddenly asked, changing the subject, "The deadline was today, right?"

"When else?"

"Well, we do have Transfiguration first thing in the morning tomorrow. Could be then."

"Wishful thinking, buddy."

"Hey," Truls said quietly, side pressed against Harry, face tilted down for the boy to hide behind the curtain of golden brown curls, "Thank you. I'm not saying this about the life debt. Just… thank you. I can't imagine being dead."

"Where do the dead go?" Lorenzo suddenly mused, "I've always wondered. I mean, religions aside– where do you think they go?"

"Nowhere," Jakob replied promptly, "The dead go nowhere."

And suddenly Harry felt chilly, as if he was on the verge of understanding something he really didn't want to know. Nowhere. _Nowhere_. He had never realized how ominous that word actually was.

*

"We have gained new information regarding their whereabouts. Those filthy blood-traitors have allied themselves with the French!"

Araminta Meliflua was old as England and thrice as English. She wore hats of oddest designs, insisted on making Muggle-hunting legal, seemed to have a cup of tea attached permanently into her hand, and hated anything foreign or different – even dialects and accents. She refused to leave her country even for any reason – including holidays – and strongly disapproved of those who did.

She also hated the French with fury that impressed even the Dark Lord himself.

Granted, he thought she was a tad obsessive about the issue, but it was entertaining to watch so why not just let her keep at it?

Araminta Meliflua was also, much to a certain Death Eater's misery, the cousin of Sirius's mother.

Sirius rarely enjoyed the strict and stuffy meetings of Dark Lord’s Army’s highest officials, as they often tended to go on _forever_. Sirius tiredly listened to his Aunt Araminta arguing in defence of some point or another, wondering if she knew that almost nobody was really listening. The perspective she was providing was interesting, certainly, but not really _important_. Sirius watched carefully the bored expression of the Dark Lord.

It was hard to believe that he was who he was and had achieved what he had.

Lord Voldemort was very handsome and charming, and didn't look a day over thirty. Sirius knew that the man was said to be immortal, but somehow– regardless of the evidence– he just couldn't wrap his mind around that fact. _No one_ could be immortal.

"I have also acquired new information," the Dark Lord said suddenly, his voice silky and dangerous. Sirius tensed, knowing that whatever the man had found out, it certainly wasn't good. "Do you remember what I told you of the… war? Of the Rebels? Do you? Bellatrix?"

"O-of course my Lord," said Bellatrix Lestrange the Defence General of the Dark Lord’s army, bowing deeply with eyes wide in a way that didn't appear completely natural, "To keep it hush hush."

"And yet," Lord Voldemort snarled, red eyes almost glowing with anger, "And yet, I find that there are _rumours_. Of the _war_. Tell me, Antonin, how can that be if everyone really was quiet about the issue?"

"I… I don't know, my Lord."

"What do you think happened, Bartemius?"

"Someone talked, my Lord," Durmstrang's Duelling Instructor and one of the Lieutenant Generals, said. Sirius tensed, knowing that he was one of those who had talked rather carelessly of the matter – but only to James and Lily! And they wouldn’t actually say it to anyone else. It _had to be_ someone else.

"Any suspicions on who might have…talked, _Lucius_?"

Of course, the Dark Lord wouldn't be getting any real answers– no one was stupid enough to reveal that they had done what he had specifically told them not to. Sirius knew, however, that this tactic of using their names was to make them feel threatened and more aware of their status and duties. And it worked– he saw from Bellatrix's cowed expression that she wouldn't be mentioning her predictions of the eventual war to anyone anytime soon again.

"My dear sister-in-law has been rather vocal on her… opinions, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy said, and Sirius heard someone behind him scoff. Of course Malfoy would rat out someone – _anyone_ – if only to avoid being punished. It didn’t help that Bellatrix outranked him.

"Lies!" Bellatrix shrieked, "No, my Lord, I haven't—"

"Crucio."

It was strange, Sirius mused, how the Dark Lord could look completely at ease while torturing others. As if it really didn't matter to him. No, he hadn't expected hesitation, of course, but even the cruellest Death Eaters showed some emotion– even if it was just enjoyment.

Lord Voldemort was a complicated man. Sirius had thought that just defining him as a psychopath would have said enough of the man's personality, but there was more to that than just words. Actually, Sirius could vaguely remember Lily once saying that the Dark Lord might not necessarily even _be_ a psychopath, but a sociopath. Personally Sirius didn't really know what the difference was, but, then again, it was none of his business anyway.

Maybe Sirius should tell Harry, though. Just in case. He didn't know if the kid knew anything about the rumours– but there was a chance that he could have overheard something. So _just in case_ , Sirius was going to send him a short letter with a bit of advice… and maybe some chocolate frogs too.

*

On Wednesday, Harry woke up to the sound of an owl trying to blast its way through the window. Yawning, he scrambled off his bed, wondering who in their right mind would send him a letter this early. It couldn't be his mother– she would just firecall unless there was an actual package that she wanted to send.

Harry recognized the small brown owl to be his godfather's, and with curiosity – and delight – dug into the box of chocolate frogs before sitting down to read the short letter.

> _Harrykins!_
> 
> _I'm well. All's well. I know I haven't been all that good at this whole letter writing business, but rest assured– I still think of you every day. Usually when I do something your mother wouldn't approve of._
> 
> _Cheery small talk aside, my sweet little godson, I actually wrote for a reason. Not only to remind you of my own existence, but also to ask whether or not you have overheard anything your parents might have mentioned about a possible war against the Rebels._
> 
> _The thing is, Harry, it was supposed to be a secret. It was supposed to be private and yet people talked, and the Dark Lord found out. Someone overheard the gossip and told him. I know you have nothing to do with it, but I decided to take the opportunity to just remind you to be careful– don't talk about politics with anyone, and burn this letter._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Sirius_

Harry folded the letter, trying to smother the feeling of guilt inside him. Why _should_ he even feel guilty? He hadn't talked about the—

 

_"Why would the Dark Lord himself be suddenly sneaking in the library of Durmstrang having a conversation with a first year about stories? It just doesn't make sense. He's probably out there doing something about the war."_

_"The war? What do you know of that?"_

_"It's just a feeling I've got. And maybe I've heard rumours. There's a war coming, supposedly."_

_"What kind of rumours have you heard?"_

_"Just that the Rebels are gathering an army and that it means war, eventually."_

 

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling sick as he remembered the conversation he had had with the mysterious Tom. It must have been _Tom_ who had told the Dark Lord. So it really _was_ Harry's fault. Or perhaps it was really Tom's. That good for nothing bastard. Harry had _known_ that there was something horribly wrong with the man.

_'I swear, if I ever see him again, I'm going to… well, I can't really say anything, can I? If he knows that I know, he'll wonder from where I found out that the Dark Lord knows. And Uncle Sirius doesn't hide the fact that he's my godfather.'_

Harry was still thinking about the issue when he finally headed towards the first lesson of the day after a quick breakfast, Care of Magical Creatures– known better as just 'Creatures'. The lessons were more often than not held outside, and the students would see either the animals they were supposed to study or just holograms of them.

"What do we have after this?" Lorenzo whispered next to Harry.

"Herbology," Filippa replied, "Then Transfiguration."

"How come we always have Transfiguration?" Harry scowled, and Heidi giggled next to him.

"Not always. Just three times a week."

"Oh, now _there_ are some creatures I want to study," Petronella suddenly said, both Heidi and Filippa nodded appreciatively at the sight of the 4th year boys having their sports lesson nearby.

"Speaking of finer specimens," Heidi started, and Harry decided that it was high time to tune the girls out. That, however, made him refocus on his thoughts about Tom instead of the ongoing Care of Magical Creatures lecture. It was strange, actually, how much he thought about the man. What was his real name anyway? Maybe he should ask Sirius? Describe him and…

No. Because then Sirius would ask from where he knew the man, and Harry didn't really feel like explaining why he didn't go to sports on that day– the tale would eventually find its way to his mother, and Harry honestly wasn't fond of the thought of his mother finding out.

She'd either assassinate him– and save himself the trouble of getting himself accidentally killed– or decide to home school him. And being home schooled meant more Gilderoy Lockhart in his life. Uh, _no_. The man's letters were more than enough torment.

Harry was carefully avoiding thinking of the bizarre, massive crush his self-declared 'mentor' had on the Duelling Instructor, often referred to as Crouch Junior.

"These unfortunate mishaps notwithstanding, we wizards may congratulate ourselves on a job well done," the professor was saying, "There can be no doubt that the overwhelming majority of present-day Muggles refuse to believe in the magical beasts their ancestors so feared. Even those Muggles who _do_ notice Porlock droppings or Streeler trails– it would be foolish to suppose that all traces of these creatures can be hidden– appear satisfied with the flimsiest non-magical explanation. Now tell me... Mr. Lennart! To read a fascinating examination of this fortunate tendency of Muggles, which book would you consult? We talked about this last time!"

"The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why the Muggles Prefer Not to Know," Björn drawled, "I read it once. Awfully dull."

"Who wrote it? Miss Albin?"

"Professor Mordicus Egg," Petronella said promptly, and Harry wondered if he should have also read the book in questions. But how could he, when there were so many other– far more interesting– books available?

"Think we'll get to play Quidditch soon?" Truls whispered, and Harry shrugged.

"I doubt it," he said. “Not with how busy they’re keeping us.”

"Sucks."

*

Harry met Tom again on Sunday. This time outside, while Harry was having a walk in the Garden of Grindelwald– a huge labyrinth that Harry found absolutely irresistible. For some strange reasons no one else liked it half as much as he did.

"Is it possible that you have become even shorter?" Tom asked, speaking to him with the familiarity of someone who had known Harry for years. Harry himself didn't feel as if this was their second meeting at all, which was rather curious. "You're doing something wrong if your growth is reversed."

"Why are you here?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Giving a guest appearance and testing some of the older students," the man replied.

"Are you a teacher at some other school?"

"I teach lessons, yes. Daily. How old are you again?"

"Eleven," Harry said, resisting the temptation of asking the man his age, "I'm a first year here."

"Ah yes. I hate children," Tom said, looking at a strangely shaped bush nearby, "So… useless."

"Why do you work as a teacher then, if you're not fond of children?" Harry asked incredulously, "Besides, why do you even talk to me? Last time we met—"

"Look," Tom cut in, "I'm a busy man."

"Could have fooled me," Harry muttered.

"I don't have much entertainment in my life, I'm afraid. Right now, you're the funniest thing I've stumbled upon for the past… very… many years."

"The _funniest_?"

"Granted, the most irritating as well. And strangest. You _are_ rather odd."

"You're one to talk," Harry said slowly, staring at the man, feeling suddenly irritated. "Who the hell are you?"

"You're eleven. You're not supposed to talk like that."

"Look, I'm pretty sure you're not my mum."

"What a disturbing mental image you're giving me. I'm _definitely_ not your mother."

"Why are you still here?"

"I wonder that too," Tom said, "But then I realize that this is the most fun I have had in a while. And then, I realize that you're just a kid, and it makes me feel disappointed that you can entertain me better than any of the people surrounding me at… hm, work." Harry eyed the man warily, before shrugging. He really didn't know what he was supposed to do or how he was supposed to react. Ever since he had arrived in Durmstrang, it seemed as if everything was gradually changing. People appeared to _see_ Harry, now, and the boy couldn't help but wonder what had changed in him to make that happen.

Tom… was unexplainable. This was the second time Harry met him and he knew nothing about the man… and yet there seemed to be this strange _something_ between them. It made Harry speak his mind– the thoughts he usually left unvoiced.

"What do you think of war?" Tom asked suddenly.

"Someone once told me that there are no winners in a war," Harry replied, and the man scoffed.

"Hypocritical naïve little pacifist," Tom said, "Probably a vegan and an animal rights activist as well. You're suddenly getting on my nerves again. Get lost."

" _You_ were the one who approached me! Besides, there's nothing wrong in being—"

"I'm currently trying to think of the reasons why I haven't cursed you yet."

"That's because you know you have no real reason to," Harry snapped, "It'd also make you question your own maturity."

"If only you knew," Tom said, shaking his head, "I shall be taking my leave now, Perry—"

" _Harry_."

"Do try to improve your personality by the next time we cross paths, mm?"

Then the man was gone and Harry was left standing alone, wondering why he would even _want_ to see Tom ever again. The Christmas holiday would start the following week and was going to last 'til the seventh of January, after which Harry doubted that he'd have the chance to wander around– the exams would surely keep him busy.

And no, he didn't feel disappointed.

*

"Wanna bet on who gets more gifts?"

"I'll send you a card, I promise!"

"See you in a few weeks!"

"Firecall me, yeah?"

James blinked with surprise at how much noise ten little children were capable of making without really even shouting. It warmed his heart, however, to see how well his son was interacting with others. Actually, all ten of them seemed to be rather close, hugging each other and talking animatedly. Finally, after over ten minutes of 'bye bye's, Harry finally reached him, and James could apparate them back home.

"Mum!" Harry flung himself at his mother, without bothering to take off his coat or shoes, "I missed you two so much!"

"Even if _I_ didn't get a hug, I'll believe you," James laughed.

"How have you been, baby?" Lily cooed, "Firecalling just isn't enough. You've grown taller!"

"I'm still almost the shortest guy, though," Harry revealed, "I wish I can be as tall as Clemens or Truls. Mum, did you buy me any gifts?"

"Of course—"

"Because Björn's got a betting pool going on about who'll be getting most gifts. I think Petronella will, because her parents are _super_ rich and they spoil her rotten. Where's Uncle Sirius?"

"Change your clothes first, dear," Lily said, "The house-elves will unpack your bag. Then you'll come down again for a bit of cookies and milk and you'll tell me all there is to tell. Alright?"

"I'll be right back!" Harry declared, and rushed away. James chuckled quietly, coming to stand next to her.

"I've never seen him this energetic before," Lily admitted.

"You didn't see him with the other kids. Trust me, they're all good friends," James told her, "It was… heart-warming to watch."

"I'm glad," Lily whispered. "I was worried about him. Always so lonely. So alone. Were there any girls he was close to?"

"What? Lily, he's _eleven_!"

"Oh trust me– even girls of eleven can tell if a guy is worth their time."

"You hated me when we were eleven."

"You _were_ rather terrible."

"You _are_ terrible," James accused, wrapping his arms around Lily, "Terribly beautiful. And amazing. And talented. And I love you so much—"

"Oh, yuck," a scandalized groan came from the doorway, and the two adults turned to see Harry staring at them with a disgusted expression. "I didn't want to hear that."

"Stomp louder on the stairs next time," James suggested, "We might even hear you."

"Look, dad, you're about four hundred years old—"

"I am _not_ —!"

"You shouldn't do stuff like that!" Harry sounded so adorably disapproving while James looked gravely insulted that Lily couldn't contain her laughter any longer.

"I'm not even forty yet!"

"Forty. Four hundred. One zero here or there. Doesn't matter."

"It _does_!"

"Come on, boys," Lily giggled, green eyes twinkling, "Let's just sit down for a snack. I need to tell Harry a bit about our plans for this year's Christmas."

"Will we be going to that dreadful Malfoy Christmas party again this year?"

"Yes, well, it's tradition. You'll see Draco again. Don't you miss him?"

"Honestly?" said Harry, "No. I don't. And I don't think he misses me either."

"You've changed," Lily muttered, "You're more… outspoken. I'm glad."

"A lot has happened," Harry told her, "Is Uncle Sirius going to visit today?"

"Sirius is on a mission," James said, "He'll visit when he comes back. And no, I don't know when exactly. How are the lessons at Durmstrang? Tell me about your friends."

"Challenging," Harry replied, "The lessons, I mean. And my friends are cool. Will we go meet the Weasleys, too? I don't really miss Ron either, but at least he's more fun to hang around than Draco."

"Sure. Maybe you'll talk with Ginevra too," Lily said cheerfully, "I saw her and Molly last week. That girl will be one beautiful woman, one day."

"…why would it matter to me?" Harry asked, confused, "I've never played with Ginny before."

"Let's call it investing early," his mother smiled. James snorted, and then shook his head.

"Don't…"

Harry wondered why all adults in his life were weird.

*

The Malfoy Manor was just as extravagantly, dreadfully flashy as Harry remembered it to be. His parents and godfather were all with him as they made their way inside, where the numerous guests were already mingling.

Harry couldn't stand it.

There was just that _something_ in the pretentious atmosphere that made him shudder inside. People pretending to be close friends while in truth they couldn't wait to stomp on each other to boost their own reputation.

"Sirius, James," Lucius Malfoy said, approaching them, "And Lily, of course. Hello, Harry. Draco is in the grey lounge as always. All of the visiting children will be meeting there. If you need anything, just call for a house-elf."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," the boy muttered and after smiling hesitantly, left their company.

 _'Bet he picks the grey because it makes his eyes look good,'_ Harry thought while making his way through the familiar hallways to where the other boy would surely be waiting with his friends _, 'He's so… Gilderoyish sometimes.'_

"Hi Draco," Harry said, and the blond turned with an expression of delighted surprise on his pointed face. He really hadn't changed much at all.

"Harry!" Draco exclaimed and then waved towards his friends, pointing at each one of them in turn, "I'm so glad you came! You remember Pansy and Blaise and Theo, right?"

"Yes," Harry lied with a smile, "How have you all been?"

" Quite well, Potter," Pansy drawled, eyes fixed on someone else. Probably some other girl whose dress was better than her own. "Pleased to meet you… again."

"Heard you got into Durmstrang," Theodore Nott said, "How is it there?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied with a shrug, "How's Hogwarts?"

"Easy," Draco said, "It's almost pathetic, really. At least I'm in Slytherin."

"We all are," Pansy hurried to say, finally turning to look at Harry, "Have you met anyone interesting in Durmstrang? I heard that both Anthony Lestrange and Cassius Meliflua study there– have you seen them?"

 _'Who and who?'_ Harry wondered, but didn't voice his questions. "We don't really mix with the upperclassmen. We prefer to stay with our own."

"Your own, huh," Draco repeated, "Made any new friends there?"

"Quite a few, yes," Harry said, starting to feel bored already. If only he could make the others focus on something else for a few moments, Harry was sure he could just sneak away and hide somewhere 'til it was time to go home. Or perhaps he should just— "I think I see someone familiar there. Do excuse me."

Harry hadn't, of course, seen anyone familiar. He just couldn't resist the chance to leave; slip out of the door and into a huge hall wherein the more important guests were talking and dancing. Locating one of the balconies easily, Harry finally reached the place that would guarantee him some solitude amongst all this terrifying socializing.

The sun was starting to set outside as Harry entered the balcony and closed the door before moving to sit a bit to the side, as to remain unseen by anyone inside. Through the glass, he could hear the music to which all the people danced.

Admittedly, had it not been for his hate towards this sort of events, Harry would have readily admitted that the Malfoys had outdone themselves. Now, he just reluctantly accepted that fact, wondering whether or not there was a reason for this kind of fuss.

He was so _comfortable_ in his hiding place, almost dozing off eventually.

It wasn't 'til he heard the door of the balcony slam shut again that he was startled awake, and it still took him a few moments to realize that someone was kneeling in front of him. Blinking his suddenly tired eyes open, he almost shrieked with surprise when he met the gaze of the person in front of him.

She was a beautiful woman with long, thick, shining black hair. Thin red lips were twisted into a curious smile and heavy-lidded eyes were a tad too intense for Harry's liking. They were both silently staring at each other just as the first melodies of what Harry recognized to be one of Mozart’s compositions floated through the thin glass of the door.

 _'Who is she?'_ Harry wondered, the beating of his heart calming finally down. The woman didn't move at all– just kneeled there, staring, looking scary and imposing somehow, her black robes making her resemble a dark queen of some kind.

She was beautiful.

"Thank you," the woman said, her voice lighter than what Harry would have assumed it to be.

"I didn't say that aloud," Harry said, thinking of how regardless of the words, the woman didn't sound grateful at all.

"You didn't have to," the woman replied. "Harry Potter. Here hiding from ickle little Draco and his friends."

"How—"

"It's all in your mind, boy. People don't stare at anyone's eyes just because they're beautiful. Even if yours are exquisite."

"Wait," Harry said, mind working rapidly. He had read about something that involved eye-contact to read minds. Something called... "You used legilimency on me?"

"You know the term," the woman said, smiling again, "Impressive."

"I study at Durmstrang," Harry replied warily, back still pressed against the wall behind him, "Our materials are very... extensive."

"So you'll be a fine, fine Death Eater one day," the woman almost sang, "Serving our Lord. Faithfully, yes. You should feel honoured, boy. Honoured. You are predestined to be one of his best. Finest. To follow in my footsteps. I'm his most faithful, you see. _Most_ faithful." And suddenly, Harry knew who she was. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins as fear returned in one, almost overwhelming rush.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," he whispered, and the woman's eyes widened as she let out a short, delighted laugh that was little more than an exhale.

"Had you asked who I was," she hissed, leaning even closer, "I would have killed you here, little one."

Harry didn't doubt her words. He was still shaking when the woman stood up and left to seek entertainment elsewhere.

*

It was half past two at night when the Potters finally returned home. Harry had stayed quiet most of the time, hiding and avoiding everyone– _especially_ Bellatrix Lestrange– and was exhausted by the time he found his parents and left for home. His mother had tucked him in and told him that he could sleep in the next day, and then wake up to open his gifts.

Harry, regardless of his exhaustion, couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered his meeting with the Bellatrix Lestrange.

The woman was legendary.

She was one of the Dark Lord's finest– or worst, depending on the point of view. There had been _so_ many tales about her, and thanks to Draco and Ron, Harry had ended up hearing every single one of them. The woman of his nightmares. The cruel, powerful Death Eater who was said to be so mad that even the Dementors knew to stay away.

One of the two Generals of the Dark Lord’s army. Her authority was second only to the Dark Lord’s.

And now she seemed to have… _noticed_ Harry.

Was this some kind of punishment? No one had noticed Harry before, and now suddenly it seems that crazy people like her noticed him a bit _too_ easily? Was Tom crazy too? What should he _do_? He couldn't tell his parents; that was certain. What was left? He'd have to learn how to protect himself. He would have to. Or was he being paranoid? Was he overreacting? Maybe Bellatrix had forgotten him already? Would he dare to count on that?

Harry wasn't by nature an ambitious child. All he yearned for was to read more stories in peace. But he knew that stories wouldn't keep him safe if Bellatrix decided to come up with another reason just to kill him. Why did she hate him anyway?

 _'Maybe she doesn’t hate me. People like her,'_ Harry suddenly realized with dread, _'they don't need a reason to kill somebody. All they need is the opportunity to do so.'_

It was almost four in the morning when Harry rolled off his bed and fell onto the floor with a thud. It hurt a little bit, but the carpet was rather comfortable and it certainly offered a change of scenery. Harry sighed and pulled himself up, before noticing the vaguely familiar old notebook on his desk, exactly where he had left it before.

And suddenly, all traces of exhaustion vanished with the appearance of new hope. A whisper of a memory, bringing hope with it, made him reach for the old notebook and look at it seriously for the first time. The thought of his wand suddenly surged forward in his mind, as if by force, and he didn't think twice before reaching for the notebook and his wand.

He stood there, in the darkness, for a few moments with both the notebook and his wand in his hands. There seemed to be magic– different kind of magic– that went through him. Or perhaps it wasn't magic at all– maybe it was just feelings. Hope. Determination. Fear. Courage. Something else. Whatever it was, it made Harry switch the light on, sit down on his bed, and open the notebook once more.

He skipped the pages that he had already read, and went on to look for anything that could be a useful spell or a rune. He found none of that. The writer, Haines Potter, seemed to have written more of a manifesto than a series of actual lessons for Harry to learn from.

> _It is often said that a man should not hope for something outside his reach. Humbug, I say. One must always reach for what is previously thought too grand for him – that is how he grows. What make a man’s influence, however, are the allies he can count on. The network that maps out his presence._

Harry wasn’t sure if whatever Haines Potter had written about would actually be useful in the long run, but he set aside all doubts for now. The mere memory of the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange, her words, her soft tone, and the absolute fear she had made him feel wasn’t something to sneer at. He had never felt quite like that before, even though he knew that Draco's father was almost as highly ranked as Bellatrix.

And yet, Lucius Malfoy didn't have the same atmosphere of darkness around him.

Maybe he just wasn't unpredictable enough? Sirius had often called his cousin insane, but Harry had never really thought that he had actually meant it. What if he _did_? What if Bellatrix really was somehow insane? Could someone’s unpredictability be seen as a sign of madness or was that simply ignorance? She certainly didn't come across as an ordinary person, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t of sound mind.

Harry hated the idea of being targeted by someone. He hated not being _sure_ about that even more. He _really_ couldn't tell whether or not Bellatrix was really a threat to him. Maybe she really _wasn't_? Maybe the threat was just a one-time thing? Maybe she had forgotten already about Harry?

Would he dare to count on that?

> _It is rare for stars to be so aligned as to grant a man success without him working for it. For those of us who aren’t so fortunate, success is something we must deliberately seek. How far a person is willing to go and what they are willing to do is what will define their chances of achieving success._
> 
> _I have realized that in the face of desperation and ambition, honour and morality and good and evil are mere words with no meaning._
> 
> _It does not matter who or what one seek alliance with, so long as they will enable the fulfilment of ambition. Allying oneself with powerful families and people – even creatures, in some occasions – is a practice old as time. It is the base of marriages and friendships and at times even procreation. Seeking and gaining the right allies is of utmost importance._

First Tom and now Bellatrix.

How the hell could the Death Eaters be so deprived of entertainment that they would start considering an eleven-year old boy as the next best thing? Shouldn’t they be busy fighting the Rebels? Did the Dark Lord know that his finest were gallivanting around threatening children instead of doing their jobs?

 _No wonder_ the Rebels were becoming such a threat if all the adults were so incompetent.

Either way, Harry needed to find a good way to protect himself. He knew that there were no real shortcuts to power– he knew that even if he found out how to gain power, it could take _years_ before he actually achieved that.

But he was willing to try. He didn't know yet how far he could go, didn't know what he would be able to eventually sacrifice for the sake of achieving what he wanted. Harry didn't want to end up like the men in stories that died and had their families killed just because they weren't prepared, but he also didn’t want to end up like the men who gave up too much and lost their purpose for seeking strength in the first place.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe not. But the mere thought of meeting Bellatrix again was enough for Harry to yearn for the power to protect himself, no matter the price.

> _My search for the right allies led me to places no mind can imagine. Should I describe it in words, I would find myself incapable of finding the right language to use. There were many that were worthy, but their pre-existing alliances with other parties are the kind of ties that I seek no involvement in._
> 
> _I found my answers in the simplest inevitability of human life: death itself._
> 
> _And in death, I found the Gone Tribe._


	5. Chapter 5

He didn’t _understand_.

The Gone Tribe? Harry had never even _heard_ of anything like that, and he had read quite a lot. As far as names went, the Gone Tribe didn’t sound interesting, let alone cool enough to indicate any merit through association. Going by the context, however, _Haines_ had found them to be quite useful. Would Harry?

It wasn’t that Harry was feeling threatened at that moment, but… he knew that having some other form of defence alongisde the manticore shirt would at least help him sleep better at night. The shirt would protect his upper body, but what about his head and neck and arms and— _well_ , the rest of his body as well.

> _Old tales speak of a race long gone – a tribe of vicious creatures that drive a hard bargain. But oh, glory to the man who allies himself with their kind. The Gone Tribe are, well, gone. They’re gone, until the moment they’re not, and that is when one must learn to battle nightmares in the waking hours._

Perhaps Harry, too, ought to look into what information he could find about this new, strange tribe. If it turned out to be dangerous, he wouldn't really _use_ the knowledge. He could just keep the knowledge as some sort of a backup plan. A security measure.

 _‘But then again,’_ the boy thought, _‘why waste my time on this at all?’_ Harry wanted something he could _use_ to defend himself with. Learning things he would never use would just be a waste of time.

And yet… why did he have this feeling of _unease_ that made him almost sick? If Bellatrix turned out to _really_ be a threat, here he had the solution. Or rather, the _possibility_ of a solution. He wasn’t yet sure if what Haines had found – this Gone Tribe – would even be useful, but what _if_.

What had brought Bellatrix out to the balcony in the first place? Had she seen him go there? Why would she chase after him?

Harry closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes, knowing that it would be morning soon. The imminent feeling of fear Bellatrix had inspired was slowly vanishing, leaving behind anxiety and confusion. Harry looked down at the notebook again and knew that with it, if he wanted to, he _could_ defend himself. Maybe.

If he wanted to.

 _'I need to talk with someone,'_ Harry thought, _'but who?'_ He needed advice. Advice that was not only good but also wouldn't reach the ears of his parents. But who would give him that kind of advice? Gildy? Hardly! While Harry did not think of the man as an ignorant, uneducated fraud anymore, he didn't think that the ability to survive the wrath of Bellatrix Lestrange was a craft the glittery socialite knew anything about.

Strangely enough, Harry felt as if there was someone he was forgetting. As if he was on the verge of remembering a name that would make him gasp 'but of course!' and feel stupid for not remembering them sooner. Sighing, he readjusted his pillow before deciding to sleep, leaving the heavy thoughts for the morning.

 _Wait_.

Sleep?

_…unconsciousness…_

There was a memory. A vague memory. A familiar memory of a train station… and cold, wet grey weather, trains, an old man—

 _Oh_.

Albus.

Suddenly fully awake, Harry sat up and switched the lights on. His fears and thoughts of Bellatrix and the Gone Tribe were pushed away by the dawning realization that his dreams might not be just dreams after all. Could it really be? If it _was_ a dream, then could he really remember the coldness and wetness and—

 _'Both times I had that dream, I was knocked out by something or someone else,'_ Harry thought, _'Maybe I need to knock myself out to get there? But what if I don't succeed?'_

Oh well, he had been planning on practicing stunning spells anyway. Might as well practice on himself.

It didn't take Harry long to find the spell needed– it was in a book not his own, but an old defence book that belonged to his mother when she was a third year student in Hogwarts. He was already pointing his wand at himself, ready to say the incantation when he started wondering whether it would knock him out or just petrify him.

 _'Why is nothing easy in my life?'_ Harry thought bitterly _, 'A guy wants to knock himself out and even that is being hindered. I wonder what exactly the spell was that they used on me at the entrance exam.'_ Then again, the second time it hadn't been a spell, but an accident. However, Harry doubted that his mother would really approve of deliberate attempts at passing out by jumping through the window.

So did that really leave just Gildy for him to talk with?

Good grief.

*

Harry had eventually fallen asleep, and didn't wake up until half past twelve.

And when he finally, around one o'clock, made it to the living room, he was greeted by a sight that made him almost return back to bed. His parents were there, as well as Sirius. And Gildy. Was this some sort of a message? A nudge from a higher power?

"Harry!" the man exclaimed, beaming, "I came personally to tell you—"

"Yes, yes," Harry cut in, making Sirius and James snicker while Lily looked appalled, "Merry Christmas and all that. Why are you dressed in red and orange? Wouldn't green be more… into the theme?"

"Green isn't really my colour," Gildy sighed, pouting, "It makes me look rather sickly. I didn't want to risk it in case we bumped into your Duelling Instructor."

"Wha— Why would you bump into him _here_?" Harry asked, feeling indescribable amounts of confusion at that moment. "And why are you even prepared to bump into him in the first place?" _Harry_ hadn’t yet bumped into the man in question _anywhere_ , and likely _wouldn’t_ until he started his duelling classes in the future.

"Well—"

"No. I don't want to know."

"You got a letter," James said, changing the subject, "We put it with your gifts. Go on, Harry, it's gift-opening time! Rip those papers to shreds!" Hesitantly, Harry made his way towards the neatly wrapped gifts while his mother left towards the kitchen, saying that she'd bring the food, and _James make yourself useful and help me, for Merlin’s sake._

"By James, she means the two of us," Harry's father told Sirius, who snorted, but allowed himself to be pulled away. Harry was about to open the first gift when Gildy sat down on the floor next to him and stared at Harry with a serious expression for a long moment.

"Is something wrong?" the man asked finally, "You don't look radiant at all."

"There's just been a lot on my mind," Harry admitted hesitantly, setting down the gift he had been holding, unopened, "I'm confused."

"Maybe talking will help. Sometimes, it really does."

"It's hard to explain."

"Try."

"If you were in danger, or if there was a threat," Harry started, looking at his self-appointed mentor warily, "and the best way to protect yourself would be by doing something you maybe _shouldn't_. Like, it could be risky and could go against your morals, sort of. What do you do then? Beside seek other alternatives? Because the way that exists is the easiest and probably the strongest, just a bit dangerous."

"You know, Harry," Gildy started with a sigh. "The problem in defence is how far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from. If you want to protect yourself… do you really have to compromise who you really are to do so? Because if it's harmful—"

"It's not really _harmful_. Not to _me_. I think," Harry stuttered, looking lost. It would have been easier to decide if he knew actually what the Gone Tribe _was_ , exactly. "But… it might involve… others. And it'd be for a good cause. I mean, well… I have a really good reason, you know."

"Just because you have a good excuse," Gildy said gently, appearing uncharacteristically sensible and smart, and, fleetingly, Harry wondered if someone had polyjuiced themselves to impersonate the man and give wise advice, "does not make it right. Justification does not make a right out of a wrong, even if it provides an excuse that in turn would allow you forgiveness."

"What do I do, then?" Harry asked.

"What kind of problem is it? A threat, you said?" Harry was about to answer– say something, _anything_ , he wasn't sure what exactly– when he heard his parents and godfather returning.

"I have never quite understood why women love cats," his father was saying, "Cats are independent, they don't listen to orders, don't come in when they're called, they want to spend the whole night out, and when they do come back home, they want to be alone and sleep. In other words: all the things women hate in men, they love in cats."

"Well, yes, but women aren't out to marry cats, now are they?" Lily shot back, carrying a tray of drinks, "It's the men who have their cat-girl fetishes, am I right?"

"Cat-girls?" Sirius exclaimed with a disgusted expression, "Yuck!"

"You're a dog, Padfoot."

"Why do I have to listen to this?" Harry asked, traumatized, "Wait, why are you people even _talking_ about this?"

"There's nothing appealing about cat-girls," Gildy agreed, "Speaking of appealing… not that I find him appealing in any shape or form– of course not– but does your Duelling Instructor—"

"I have never talked to the man," Harry cut in, "Look, why don't you just corner him or something, if you're so curious about him? Are you a fan of his?"

"Um," Gildy said, blue eyes suddenly fixed on something behind Harry, and with disbelief the boy witnessed a flush making its way up the man’s neck, spreading all over his face. Yes, the flamboyant idiot– who was probably not that much of an idiot, actually– was officially blushing.

"Merlin," said Harry and decided that he didn't want to pursue that topic. Ever.

"It's not what you think," Gildy insisted.

"Look," Harry groaned, "I'm eleven. I don't care. Now hand me those tacos and leave me alone."

*

There was something different about Harry.

Lily had noticed it before– after the entrance exam of Durmstrang, for example. Since then, Harry had gradually, almost unnoticeably, changed in ways that weren't really alarming as much as just confusing. He had seemed to achieve a kind of _presence_ , if it could be called that. As if he was a painting that had only recently gained its colours. He was more outgoing, more confident… and while, indeed, people seemed to notice him much more nowadays, there still was something… almost _transparent_ about him.

Which was ridiculous, since he really wasn't. He was solid, _there_ , sitting and eating tacos while sneering at Gilderoy Lockhart with all his might. And yet, Lily couldn't shake off the feeling… the fear of Harry vanishing suddenly.

"Looking focused, Lily," James said, and she smiled tenderly at her husband.

"Thinking about Harry," she replied, and Sirius grinned.

"He's doing great, isn't he?" the man said, "Makes me proud, he does. Even if he seems to actually _like_ that fraud."

"Gilderoy is a great man," Lily snapped, "Why are you so against him anyway?"

"You know he's queer," Sirius pointed out, and the woman groaned, shaking her head.

"What, don't tell me that you think homosexuality is contagious, you moron," she asked, "Don't be stupid."

"But he might get influenced," Sirius insisted, and Lily hesitated before shrugging. James frowned at the two.

"Would it matter?" he asked, "If Harry turned out gay, I mean. Well, right now, he's not interested in anyone, of course, since he's too young. But eventually, when he grows up. Would it really matter even if he brought in a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend?"

"You need an heir to the Potter line," Sirius reminded him, and James shrugged.

"What I need is to see Harry happy, Siri. You know I've never really given a damn about whether or not the actual Pureblood Potter line continues. If he settles down with a man, he can adopt. Merlin knows there're enough kids out there with no families.”

"I understand your point," Sirius insisted, "And I don't have anything against queers in general, but you have to know that if Harry rises up in Death Eater ranks and then gets a male… _partner_ , it will definitely be a scandal. A minor one, but still—"

"Not really," James cut in, "If Harry's influential and high-ranked, and if his partner is high-ranked as well, people will accept it. Catering to power, that's what they do. Hate them when they're weak, love them when they're strong. Sexualities don't matter a whit, and you know that. On the contrary, people will be delighted. That's less one competing pureblood family to them."

"I think the time for this conversation isn't now," Lily said suddenly, forcing a smile, "As you said, James, Harry is still a child, just eleven years old. We don't know what his choices will be. Maybe he'll get to know Ginny Weasley and—"

"You just said that he's still a child," James cut in, feeling suddenly irritated, "Come on, Lily. No matchmaking."

"Look at the time," Gilderoy suddenly exclaimed, standing up, "I must be going now. Thank you for the invitation, dear Lily and James."

"We're glad you could come," Lily said, relieved to find a way out of her current conversation, "You'll be visiting us soon again, yes?"

"I shall try," the man said, shaking her hand before heading towards the fireplace, "I'll see you soon, Harry! Remember what I said, yes? Goodbye!"

 _'I think he might be good influence on Harry, actually,'_ Lily admitted to herself, watching her son stand up and grab his gifts– and the letter he got– before heading to his room _, 'Harry could learn to be a bit friendlier.'_

*

As soon as Harry closed his room's door behind his back, he dropped the gifts onto the floor and ripped open the envelope of the letter he had received. He had recognized the handwriting and knew it to be from Filippa. Question was, why would she send him a letter? Quickly scanning the words written neatly onto the piece of parchment, Harry couldn't help but gasp, heart skipping a beat. This was _not_ good. Not good at all.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _I received a message from Heidi two days ago. I don't know what is going on, but it seems that Bellatrix Lestrange has for some reason or another approached Björn, Nikolai, Heidi, Jakob and Truls. She might seek you out as well. She might seek out the rest of us for some reason or another. I already talked with Lorenzo, who says that Clemens might know something. However, all of my messages have been ignored. As I said, I don't know what's going on, but keep your wand nearby._
> 
> _Take care, Harry, and see you in a few weeks._
> 
> _Filippa_

"What the hell is going on," he whispered. So Bellatrix had sought out his other friends too? Why? He needed to talk with Filippa. He needed to send her a letter _pronto_. But an owl wouldn't reach her for a few days, if she was currently in Italy. Would he really have to wait till the holiday ended before talking about this– whatever _this_ was– with his friends?

But if it was true, if Bellatrix _had_ really sought out all of them… would that increase the danger on Harry or decrease it? Why would one of the Dark Lord's finest seek out a bunch of kids? Granted, they were Durmstrang students and the first generation to enter after the change of system there… Could _that_ be the reason? Maybe he should send a message to Filippa and tell her about his theory?

Yes, he could do that.

Scrambling quickly to get a piece of parchment and a quill, Harry scribbled down a short message.

> _F,_
> 
> _She cornered me too. Could look for all of us. Maybe because we're the true first generation of Durmstrang's new system? Could be dangerous. Be careful. See you._
> 
> _H._

Harry then hurried out of his room towards the owlery of the Potter Manor, to seek out Hedwig. The snowy owl hooted at him and pecked him once before taking off to where Harry instructed her to go. The boy stared after the bird for a while, before the cold up there became too unbearable for him. He didn't know how long it would take for Hedwig to reach Filippa, but he didn't care. If he was right and the situation turned out to be dangerous, then he might have to end up using the Book of Allies. It'd be—

_"Justification does not make a right out of a wrong."_

— justified.

Damn you, Gilderoy Lockhart.

So caught up in his thoughts, Harry was, that he missed a step on his way out of the owlery, stumbling at the stairs and falling down, hitting his head and effectively knocking himself out.

*

The train station was just as grey, wet and depressing as Harry had remembered. Unlike the two previous visits, however, he now knew– or strongly suspected anyway– that this place wasn't a dream, and that Albus wasn't a person his subconscious mind had created during idle hours.

"I want to know," Harry said as soon as he saw the old man, "I want to know if this really is a dream."

"A _dream_?" Albus said, blue eyes twinkling with delight, "No, goodness, _no_. This was never a dream. But then again, a part of you knew that, yes?"

" _No_ ," Harry denied, "Maybe not. Possibly. Perhaps. I mean, _look_. That's irrelevant."

"Most things are," Albus agreed, and Harry shuddered when a bypassing train caused a strong gust of cold wind to hit him.

"I wanted to talk with you," Harry said, "I guess I really _did_ know that you're not a dream. Otherwise, that would have been like asking advice from my mind."

"You'd be surprised by how much your mind actually knows," Albus told him, "It just never tells you. What did you want to talk about with me, my boy?"

"What is this place?" Harry asked, finally sitting down on the bench next to the old man, "I mean, really."

"I told you already, my boy, didn’t I? During the first visit, I believe. This is a… stop of sorts. You die, you come here."

"Why am _I_ here then? I'm not dead. At least I don't think I am."

"An interesting question. I do not know the answer, I’m sorry to say."

"But…"

"I believe, however, that you had something you wanted to talk about? Is it truly this?"

"Oh, no," Harry said, returning to his original topic, "I need advice."

"I shall try my best, young man," Albus replied pleasantly.

"What do you know of the Gone Tribe?" Harry asked, and the twinkle in the man's eyes suddenly vanished.

“You must not talk of them _here_ ,” he said, shaking his head. “You must not talk of them _anywhere_ in fact. They can hear you and could think that you’re calling for them. And I assure you, my boy, that you do not want to have them called.

"But it – they – could save my friends and me!" Harry exclaimed, making Albus give him a long, hard stare.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" the old man asked, "Tell me everything."

And Harry did.

He told Albus about his parents, about the Death Eaters, about the world outside. He told Albus about the brother wand, about Bellatrix, about Durmstrang, and about the rumoured future plans. He even revealed everything about the notebook. After he was done, the old man was quiet for a long time.

"Am I a coward?" Harry asked finally, "Being so hesitant about this all the time…"

"It's not cowardice that stops you from doing this," Albus replied, "I believe it to be common sense and self-preservation. Traits that are rather admirable, indeed."

"I just feel like I'm stuck between _should_ and _shouldn't._ "

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years, my boy. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up your ideals and morals wrinkles the soul," Albus said, and Harry vaguely remembered the quote from a book he had read months ago, "Do you know how that relates to what you're going through?"

"You think that by calling the Go— calling them, researching them, relying on them… I'd be deserting my ideals," Harry said, unsure of what his ideals even _were_.

"Is that what _I_ think or what we both think?"

"…I don't know. We… Both of us, maybe?"

"It's so easy," Albus started gently, a wrinkly hand resting on Harry's shoulder, "to accept any shortcut when you're in a time of need."

"Someone… well, he's not a friend, really, but let's call him that for now," Harry started, "told me that having a good excuse doesn't mean it's right."

"A wise friend you have there."

"Uh, right. Wise." Gilderoy Lockhart, wise? Well alright, maybe sometimes.

"The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridges to cross and which to burn. You might think right now that sacrificing something great to achieve what you want is worth it, but is it really? Will you be able to live with your choices in the long run?"

"But what other way is there?" Harry asked, "Bellatrix can snap her fingers and skin me alive if I so much as blink in a way that she would consider disrespectful. Or something. I've heard _stories_ about her."

"And you think that solution is found in Dark magic?" Albus asked.

"Where else?"

"Light magic, of course.

"But—" Harry started with a frown, and shook his head. Albus sighed, before explaining.

"Bellatrix, if you have described her accurately, must know most of what there is to know of Dark magic. And yet, there is a common mistake that Dark wizards and witches make– they ignore Light magic, a magic with equal potential and strength."

Harry bit his lip, thinking. He wasn't convinced– he had never really heard people talking of Light magic's power. Sure, it's noble and complimented and commendable, but nobody calls it _powerful_.

"Say," he then started, changing the subject momentarily to satisfy his curiosity, "Why is this place always so empty, if it's where the dead go before departing to wherever they go?"

"Empty?" Albus said, clearly surprised. "But it is not, my boy. It's actually quite crowded here. Why, can't you see them?"

*

"I just found him there," Lily sobbed, sitting next to her son's bed, where Harry was lying, unconscious, "Why isn't he awake yet!"

"He must have hit his head on the way down," Healer Jones said, pulling back from hovering over her patient, "Might have a concussion. Don't worry, though. I'm sure that he'll be alright."

"Is there anything we can do to make him get better sooner?" James asked from the doorway, a troubled expression on his face. Healer Jones shook her head with a small smile.

"It's not serious, Mr. Potter. Your son will be right as rain soon enough. I already did some checking and can assure you that aside from the bump on his head and possible concussion there is nothing wrong with him."

"But concussion is still a brain injury!" Lily exclaimed.

"A mild brain injury," Healer Jones corrected, "Rest is all he needs, Mrs. Potter. I can guarantee that he isn't the first patient with a concussion that I have treated during my career. Now, I believe it is time for me to leave."

"I'll show you the way out," James said, and Lily grimaced after the healer left. Her baby was _hurt_ and so pale and it broke her heart to see him like that. Healer Jones clearly didn't understand the situation– Lily _hated_ seeing even a simple _bruise_ on Harry.

Sighing, she moved to kiss her son's forehead, only to blink with surprise when she saw how… damp his skin was. Harry wasn't usually a sweaty person, which made this slightly odd– besides, his skin was _cold_. Not to mention that there was this strange _smell_ ; it made Lily think of mud and stone, maybe rain and smoke as well.

As if Harry had spent the past moments in a cold, wet place instead of at home, in his room, on his bed.

Could it be that he had fallen down in the Owlery as well, not just the stairs? Being an owlery, it had no glass in the windows and therefore snow must have gotten in. She should see about that– there definitely were charms to keep the snow away while allowing the owls to come and go. What if Harry caught a cold because of this? And what a timing, too! He hadn't even opened his presents yet!

"He's still unconscious?" James asked, and Lily looked up to see him holding on his arm what looked like black robes.

"You have a mission?" she asked in return, and her husband grimaced.

"Note arrived seconds after Healer Jones left. Apparently they've found a werewolf camp that might be willing to start cooperating. I don't know how long this will take."

" _Werewolves_ ," Lily repeated with dread, "Take care, James. Be very careful."

"Don't worry love, I won't be alone."

"Alone or not– be very careful. Werewolves are said to be temperamental and physically quick and strong."

"I won't be in the front line," James promised, "Take care of him, yeah?"

"Of course," Lily replied, wondering why her holiday had to be ruined like this.

*

"But," Harry said, "I see no one! Why can I see _you_ but not them?"

"Perhaps because I'm not going anywhere yet," Albus replied.

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm waiting."

"For who?"

"A dear friend of mine," Albus said wistfully in a way that made Harry feel a bit bad, without knowing why exactly, "Returning to what's troubling _you_ , my boy…"

"Everything is troubling me," Harry sulked, " _Everything_."

"I'm sure it's not quite that bad."

"It's _worse_."

"Now, my boy," Albus said and Harry had the suspicion that the man was holding back a chuckle, "Light magic depends strongly on positive emotions such as hope and belief in what is good."

"Are there wizards who can be both?" Harry asked suddenly, "I mean, both Dark _and_ Light."

"Yes. I believe they're called Grey wizards. Neutral ones. They're very rare to find– most people tend to go one way or another, it's simply easier that way."

"Were you Light?"

"Yes."

"And the Dark Lord is, well, Dark of course."

"Indeed."

"And you say that Light can be just as strong as Dark?"

"Yes. You have no need for that tribe, Harry. Give yourself the time and opportunity to learn Light spells– you might find yourself surprised."

"I'll think about it," Harry said hesitantly, and the old man smiled. He didn't say anything, and yet Harry was suddenly sure that even if he would have, Harry wouldn't have heard him. Because once again he was being pulled away and—

— suddenly Harry was awake.

It took him a few moments to open his eyes and see his mother sitting by his side.

"How are you feeling, baby?" she asked him, and the boy groaned in pain when the headache made itself known.

"Head hurts," he replied, "I slipped? Fell down the stairs…"

"And hit your head, yes. Healer Jones said that you'll be alright with enough bed rest. Are you thirsty? Do you need anything?”

"No," Harry croaked, feeling dizzy and just about ready to pass out again. "Just… sleep."

*

Eventually, it was time to go back to school, and Harry couldn't have been happier. The atmosphere at home was becoming increasingly tense, what with his father being included in a project that seemed to involve werewolves. James was often gone, working from very early till late hours, sometimes staying overnight. From what Harry had understood, the negotiations included making some werewolves learn how to live in wizarding societies, and if a werewolf was to step into the Potter household at any point, Harry de finitely wanted to be elsewhere at the time.

Going to school again and meeting his friends was definitely a better alternative. All ten of them had portkeyed to the area in front of their apartment complex, and Harry's heart almost skipped a beat with happiness as he was surrounded by his friends.

"I designed a few clothes for you," Filippa said, hugging him when she saw him, "You'll _have to_ try them on later. The green tie especially."

"You didn't reply to my message," Harry said in response, and the girl offered him a tired smile.

"Didn't know what to say. Talked with Lorenzo about it, though."

"Harry!" Truls exclaimed, pulling the shorter boy from Filippa's arms into his own, hugging him tightly, "How are you?"

"Pretty good, Truls. And you?"

"People!" Heidi called, voice rising above the noise, "We've all got bags to unpack and what not. How about we all go to our flats for now and in an hour or so meet, um—"

"At my place," Petronella offered, "I've got some snacks with me."

"So do I," Jakob said, "I'll bring mine along."

"Sounds good," Heidi grinned with delight as they made their way together towards the dorm building, "I've missed you guys _so much_!"

"Truls," Harry started quietly, catching the taller boy's attention, "Have you… I mean, I was told that Bellatrix Lestrange—"

"Yeah," the blond boy sighed, "She didn't _do_ much, though. Just stood and stared at that one party I was attending with my sister. It was pretty creepy."

"She… didn't _talk_ with you?"

"No. Maybe she didn't get the chance. Why?"

"I'll tell you later," Harry promised when they reached his apartment, "See you in an hour."

Inside his flat, Harry couldn't resist making a quick check– opening doors of the closets and cupboards, checking under the bed and tables and chairs… He didn't know _what_ exactly it was that he was looking for… but he just had to do it.

 _'I'm not paranoid,'_ the boy told himself while changing into a more casual wear– while he had been wearing the school uniform earlier, there really was no need to do so. School would start tomorrow on Tuesday, and Harry couldn't help but feel slightly disheartened about that– Tuesdays were the longest school days and included _two_ hours of Transfiguration.

Harry stood in the middle of his apartment, feeling cold and wondering whether or not life would have been easier had he decided to go to Hogwarts. Then again, he couldn't imagine hanging out with Draco or Ron instead of Truls and the others. There was just that _connection_.

Knowing that it wasn't he alone who had been cornered by Bellatrix did make him feel better– surely, together they would be able to find an explanation to what was going on? Now, he would just have to know if he was the only one she actually _talked_ to.

That was still on his mind when he finally made his way to Petronella's place, carrying with him the pumpkin pastries and tuna breads that his mother had packed for him.

"How was your holiday?" Heidi asked, hugging Harry again when he arrived. She, Petronella, Nikolai and Björn were already there.

"Surprising," Harry replied, "But I trust that we'll talk about that later."

"You too, huh," Heidi said, gesturing for Harry to sit down after leaving the snacks on the table.

"I suspect that all of us were… confronted," Harry told her, and sat down between Nikolai and Björn who made space for him just as Filippa and Lorenzo entered the flat.

"Just leave the door open," Petronella instructed, "No one but us is in the building anyway."

"I met your Lockhart," Filippa said, squeezing herself between Harry and Björn, "He's absolutely stunning!"

"He's not _my_ Lockhart!" Harry exclaimed, "And stunning wouldn't be my first choice of word on how to describe him. Besides, you can't have a crush on _him_."

"Why not?" Filippa asked, looking slightly offended.

"He's definitely gay," Harry told her, but didn't reveal who the man had a crush on.

"Oh, that absolutely blows," the Italian girl exclaimed. “Well, as long as he’s happy, I suppose.”

"What?" Clemens, who just walked in with the rest of their group, said, "Blows what? Who?"

"Nothing!" Filippa snapped, "Look, it's a saying! No one is blowing anyone."

"Aww, her heart broke," Jakob mocked and got slapped for his attempt at humour.

"Alright people, if everyone's here then come on and gather around the table," Petronella suddenly declared, clearly enjoying her role as the host, "Come on."

"We have a lot to discuss," Heidi said, closing the flat's door before taking her seat and pulling a glass of water closer, "Order in the court!"

"Yes ma'am," Nikolai said, bowing mockingly, "We'll shut up."

"I'll get directly to the point," Heidi stated, "Those who have been in contact with Bellatrix Lestrange, hands up!"

"More accurately," Harry cut in, "If there's anyone who _hasn't_ been approached by her yet, hands up." Harry couldn't bring himself to even feign surprise when no one moved.

"You were right," Filippa said, before turning to the others, "I got a message from Harry few weeks ago suggesting that Bellatrix would probably approach all of us."

"But _why_?" Petronella asked.

"Could be because we're the first generation of Durmstrang's new system," Harry said, "Also, I recall being told that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the upper years. What if Bellatrix has been assigned for us?"

"That would make sense," Truls said, nodding, "But we won't know for sure unless she approaches us at school again." A silence fell over the group and Harry couldn't help but feel warm inside at how comfortable and familial it was. He felt as if he _belonged_.

"I'm scared," Petronella suddenly whispered, "I mean, we're just first years, but eventually we'll become Death Eaters. And because we're who we are– Durmstrang students, I mean– one day, we'll be out there fighting people who might be even _stronger_ than Bellatrix." Harry, knowing the truth in her words, felt chilled and didn't even notice when Truls's hand had started to grip his own under the table.

"We're together in this," Clemens said, brushing his blond fringe to the side, " _All_ of us. If we train hard, even if we can't defeat people as strong as her on our own, together we'll definitely be able to do so. Father used to say that individually, we are one drop and together, we are an ocean."

"That actually sounds encouraging," Heidi said, her hand resting on Petronella's shoulder comfortingly, "We shouldn't be hasty, though. Perhaps she wanted to just see what we look like for future references?"

"She didn't talk to you?" Harry asked, and the others turned to him.

"No," Heidi replied, "Did she talk to _you_?"

"Yeah," Harry said nervously, noting that he seemed to be the only one the woman had talked to.

"What did she say?" Truls asked curiously, hand still holding Harry's own comfortingly.

"Threatened to kill me," Harry responded immediately, "Said my eyes are exquisite. Then, she said that I'll make a good Death Eater one day, and that I'll follow in her footsteps to become his most faithful. Or something like that."

"Gode Gud," Björn breathed, "Why? Why _you_?"

"Wish I'd know," Harry said anxiously, "Everything is suddenly complicated in my life."

"You're not the only one thinking that," Jakob said, "But I think we're worrying a bit too early, yeah? Nothing happened yet, and for all we know, nothing might end up happening. So let's just focus on our studies and work hard– no matter what happens, it's bound to be the most rewarding course of action in the long run."

"Because we'll end up on the field anyway," Heidi muttered, "We might have to _kill_ people."

"I wish I could say don't be stupid," Filippa sighed, "but I know you're right."

And Harry, once again, thought of the Gone Tribe.

*

The next time Harry met Tom was on the fifth of March.

The past few months had flown by as Harry and his friends did their best to focus solely on studying, and, eventually, Bellatrix was mostly forgotten – or at least not the most pressing worry. That didn't mean, however, that all was well. At school, the sixth and seventh years had started a vigorous training program, and rumours of battles in England and beyond became part of their everyday lives, which in turn made even the youngest students aware of what was going on. Harry, as worried as he was, kept receiving reassuring letters from his mother.

"They say that there's a Rebels camp in Italy, too," Lorenzo once said on their way to a Charms lesson, "My sister is a journalist and our parents are afraid that she'll be sent to report on what's going on in that area."

"It's so _weird_ ," Clemens had sighed in response, "Feels like the battles are happening all over the world, not just the UK. Think a war will really start?"

That short exchange was on Harry's mind on that day as he was making his way from his flat towards the Garden of Grindelwald. As much as he enjoyed being with his friends, Harry valued his Sunday mornings as a time of solitude and a rest from all the socializing, and found the garden to be the ideal place for that. This time, however, he had barely stepped into the labyrinth when he saw Tom standing there, staring into nothing with a blank expression.

Stopping few feet away from the man, Harry took in the signs of exhaustion that were visible regardless of how well-groomed Tom was. The man didn't look at him, but Harry knew that he knew that Harry was standing there.

"You look terrible," the boy said eventually, warily. It was strange how he feared Bellatrix so much, and yet, this man who was probably equally ranked didn't omit such aura of madness. The logical part of Harry's mind knew that perhaps this seeming harmlessness was what made this man possibly even _more_ dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

"It's a good place to think," Tom told him, "And you sure don't do that flattery thing, huh?"

"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked, ignoring the second part of what the man had said.

"Oh, the usual," Tom replied dismissively, "The idiocy of some individuals, torture, gore… And why the hell do people mourn for each other even after almost fifteen years?"

"When people care, that's what happens," Harry said, sitting down on a bench not two steps away, "You miss someone?"

"Hardly," Tom scoffed, "The Rebels… I have to understand what makes them fight in the name of someone long dead."

"Like who?"

"An old man. A fool. You wouldn't know him. There has been an unwritten rule against saying his name aloud in England."

"The Dark Lord hated him, then?" Harry asked softly, and Tom looked at him oddly and there was a strange, almost lost look in his eyes.

"The Dark Lord probably hates everyone," Tom finally said, "Even if he doesn't always act like it. Yes. All he really enjoys is causing others pain, and why not? If people are inferior to you, then why should you concern yourself with their petty emotions? They're so fickle anyway."

"Is he evil?" The suddenly blurted question made Tom pause, sigh and stare at the blooming bushes for a long time before answering.

"Voldemort doesn't… believe in good or evil... because there _is_ no good or evil. Not really. There's only _power_ , and those too weak to grasp it."

"That sounds like a villainous catchphrase," Harry remarked, "'There's no good or evil', 'I'll win next time', 'what doesn't kill you makes you the villain', 'brush your teeth'— no, wait, that one was Gildy's."

"Gildy?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart. He's my, uh, mentor."

"Oh. No wonder you're so strange, then."

"Excuse me?" Harry snapped, appalled to the core, "Did you just compare me to— look, the guy wears purple and has a secret crush on Professor Crouch—" The outburst of laughter that cut off his starting rant caught Harry off guard, and he stared wide-eyed at Tom who didn't seem to be able to stop cackling.

And this guy called _him_ weird.

 _Ha_. Like he could afford saying that.

"It's not that funny," Harry said, "It's traumatizing."

"You're too young," Tom finally managed to get out, forcibly calming himself down, "To understand."

"It's not like they'll ever meet."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

"Look," Harry said. "You're being weird today. What's wrong with you?" All the amusement drained from Tom, whose face once again showed only boredom.

"It's time for me to go now, I suppose," he said, turning away and starting to walk away, "It was nice seeing you again after so long, Harry."

"You're not going to tell me who it was?" Harry called after him, "The old man? His name?"

"Albus," Tom replied, not turning to look at Harry as he kept walking away, "Albus Dumbledore."

*

There couldn't be many men named 'Albus Dumbledore' in history, right? And yet, Harry couldn't find a single thing about the wizard, no matter how much he searched. It was strange. He hadn't dared to ask his parents directly, but had gone and borrowed the book 'Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century' and yet, there wasn't even a mention of the man. Could it be that he _wasn't_ great after all? But if he wasn't that great, why would the Rebels follow his ideals even after death?

No, there had to be something in the equation that Harry was missing.

Right now, Harry was still browsing through that book, sitting on his couch while Filippa and Heidi baked something.

"I still don't understand why you do that _here_ ," Truls, who was sitting next to Harry, said to the girls.

"Why not?" Filippa asked, "It's not like Harry ever does anything with this kitchen. I think we all should sign up for cooking lessons. Would you like a raspberry muffin, Truls? Your favourites, I believe. We just finished a batch."

"Are they poisoned?" Truls asked with evident suspicion. Heidi picked one up and took a small bite.

"No," she said, "I promise, they're not."

"No thanks."

"Look," Harry said suddenly, looking up from his book, "That sounds like you would have taken them had they been poisoned."

"I don't trust those girls to not poison me," the Swedish boy replied defensively, "Filippa especially. She would if she could! I mean, look at her glares!"

"I'd rather not. I could die."

"My point exactly!"

"You guys are so childish," Heidi declared, pulling forward a chair to stand on for better access, "I can't wait till I grow up. I want to be tall."

"Growing up means we'll get to go to the parties of grown-ups," Filippa agreed with a grin, "The dresses! Harry, you're going to be my partner in future balls, yes?"

"Why not Nikolai?" Heidi whispered, "I think he likes you." The Italian girl shook her head, but smiled anyway. Harry sighed, feeling utterly bored all of a sudden.

"Shall we go fly?" Truls suggested, "We can leave the girls here."

"Alright," Harry said and stood up, "I miss flying. It's such a pity that we can't play Quidditch properly. Damn those stuck-up second year morons."

The weather outside was just as pleasant as it had been in the morning, if a little bit chillier. The closest Quidditch pitch was, however, occupied by Durmstrang's official Quidditch team and the second string.

"We can walk to the other pitch," Harry said.

"Or watch them play," Truls replied, before pointing out a player who had just pulled off what seemed to be a rather complicated feint, "That's the third year everyone's been talking about. Viktor Krum."

"Lucky sod," Harry muttered, "He can play proper Quidditch whenever he wants to."

"They say he's special," Truls said, "I can believe that. Just watch him fly."

And Harry watched, wishing that he could be where Krum was now. Flying without a care in the world, not worrying about the future and his family and just enjoying his time being a student. Harry couldn't help but think that had he been in Hogwarts right now, what would he be doing? Certainly not be standing next to Truls watching an admittedly excellent Quidditch team practicing.

"Truls," Harry started, still looking at the flying form of Viktor Krum, "If a war starts, what will happen to us?"

"Nothing, I think," Truls replied, "I mean, we'll be here, studying, and it'd take years before they'd make us go fight. And I don't think that the war would last that long."

"What about our families?" Harry asked, "Aren't you worried?"

"I don't want to think about it," Truls admitted, "My family lives in Sweden and will most likely stay safe."

"The future is scary," Harry sighed.

"In more ways than one," Truls agreed.

*

It was already June– the last of school months– when Harry received a rather worrisome letter from his mother.

> _My dear son,_
> 
> _I do not know how to tell you this and make it sound less terrible. However, I trust you to behave maturely and accept the situation as it is. You’ve always been very mature for your age, and right now I truly appreciate that._
> 
> _Perhaps you remember when your father returned from his first mission regarding the werewolves, during that Christmas break of yours? How his task was to go with a team to investigate werewolf camps and see who were faithful and potentially useful, and then to be trained by wizards? We were told of the possibility of a werewolf being taken in temporarily by a wizarding family, to be taught manners and our way of life._
> 
> _Our family was chosen to be one of the families that are to take in a werewolf._
> 
> _Trust me when I say that the werewolf– Remus Lupin is his name– has been made harmless. During the full moon, there are potions and a cage to keep him restricted, and otherwise, there is a collar around his neck that will make him harmless in case he turns out to be a threat. However, I remember Lupin from our school years at Hogwarts– he is a polite, nice man, and had he not been a werewolf, I would have readily called him a friend._
> 
> _When you come back from school, he will already be here. We have given him lodgings in the basement, where he will stay during the day when James and I are away. You needn't worry, Harry– you will never be in his presence without James, Sirius or I accompanying you, just in case._
> 
> _I cannot wait to see you again, dearest._
> 
> _Your loving mother,_
> 
> _Lily_

Harry set down the letter numbly, feeling as if his insides had just frozen. He stared blankly through the window at the setting sun and absently thought of how in the _world_ he was supposed to sleep early after receiving this kind of message. Tomorrow would be Friday and he couldn't _possibly_ be anything less than 100% focused since the exams were less than a week away.

But a _werewolf_.

Harry had never even _seen_ a werewolf, and now he was supposed to _live_ with one?

 _'Then again, mum did say he's polite and nice,_ ' Harry thought _, 'Which can't be said about some humans. I wonder what he will look like. Will he be tall and hairy and with huge teeth?'_ And suddenly, a memory of the Beauty and the Beast surfaced. The story of seeing beyond the monstrosity that was on the surface. And _sure_ , while the werewolf surely wasn't like the Beast, who's to say that he was a monster?

 _'That's something I should tell Tom,'_ Harry suddenly thought, and grinned, _'That the fairytales he sees no point in have taught me to not think of every beast as a monster.'_ He'd surprise his parents and godfather and try to, well, not make friends with the werewolf, but perhaps to be polite to him. Friendly, even.

Thinking like that made him feel slightly better, and Harry smiled, relaxing slightly. Should he send a response to his mother? Perhaps later– or maybe just wait till he went home. The 31st of July wasn't that many weeks away after all.

The first year at Durmstrang was almost over, and Harry could hardly believe how much had happened and how much he, as a person, had changed. It was rather strange and he wondered if Draco or Ron would notice a difference.

Sometimes, Harry found it funny how his family was regularly associating with families that were a word away from starting a feud. The Weasleys were friends of his parents– truly friends, with similar ideals and hopes. The Malfoys had been introduced through Sirius whose cousin was Lady Malfoy.

He wondered what kind of reactions the two families would have about the werewolf. Maybe the Malfoys had one too?

 _'I have to ask mum about that, then,'_ Harry thought while switching off the lights and walking towards his bed, _'I wonder what the werewolf looks like.'_

It was three weeks and two days later that he met Remus Lupin.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry had been so prepared to see a monster, that, when he first saw Remus Lupin, he felt almost cheated.

The werewolf was tall– _very_ tall– but also very, very _thin_. Harry didn't know the man’s age, but there was an odd blend of old and young in him, as though he was young in years but old in everything else. There were a few lines on his face, and his hair was closer to grey than light brown. There were also scars on his face, and his robes were shabby at best. The only thing that actually hinted at him not being human was the pair of golden eyes that seemed to be rather blank. Or maybe tired.

"Are you _sure_ he's a werewolf?" Harry asked sceptically, still dressed in his Durmstrang robes– he had arrived less than five minutes ago and had immediately wanted to at least _see_ their newest houseguest. "Looks pretty normal to me."

"You should see him during full moon, then," Sirius said cheerfully, and didn't seem to notice the flinch of the werewolf at the words. "Shouldn't you get changed and then come tell us about your amazing school year?"

"Changing can wait," Harry said, still staring at Lupin, insides burning with curiosity. "They told us during history lessons that quite a few werewolves were specifically created during the first war to—"

"Harry!" Lily exclaimed, appalled. "The past is past. Let it _be_."

"Yeah, sure. War makes thieves and peace hangs them," Harry replied, not sure why exactly he was suddenly feeling agitated. Perhaps the Beauty and the Beast had left him with an impression far stronger than he had initially thought? But he couldn't just ignore the feeling of _wrongness_ in this whole thing, especially if that bit of history was really true.

There was an odd expression on James's face as he watched his previously shy son reply to Lily in such manner. Harry's green eyes shone with the same determination that James had seen in Lily's eyes when she had defended Snape from him and Sirius years and years ago. But _surely_ Harry wasn't defending— What was he defending the werewolf _from_ , anyway? The boy hadn't even talked with the creature yet! Was this some power of werewolves? No, impossible. Couldn't be, otherwise it'd have been made known already.

"Go change your clothes and then come to the lounge," Lily said, her voice calm and controlled, "and then we'll introduce you to… him."

"And when you introduce us, will you actually use his name? It's not like I don't know it already," Harry said, heading towards the stairs, not waiting for his mother's reply. There was just _something_ about the situation that didn't sit well with him; it just oozed this sense of wrongness.

"Honestly," Lily huffed as they made their way towards the lounge, "why is he acting like this? He's usually so… not like that. I told him to accept the situation maturely!"

"Maybe it's the shock," Sirius suggested. "It's not every day that a kid returns home to see a werewolf inside."

"I doubt that was the reason, Sirius," Lily sighed, sitting down next to James, who gestured for Lupin to take a seat on the armchair nearby.

"You studied at Hogwarts with us, weren't you?" James suddenly asked, already knowing that he was right. "Which house was it?"

"Yes, sir," Lupin replied, his voice a soft, tired, wary rumble. "Gryffindor."

"Ah, yes. I, er, almost remembered that. Um, well, that was Harry. The boy, I mean. My son," James stammered awkwardly, feeling rather out of his element. He really wasn't cut out for this sort of speeches. "He, er, is…"

"You're not to stay with him in the same room unsupervised," Sirius took over. "He's a curious little fellow, but not stupid. You won't be able to fool him." Sirius might have continued, but the appearance of his godson put a stop to the starting lecture.

"One of the first things they taught as in the Dark Arts lessons," Harry said, entering the room dressed in dark green trousers and a black shirt, "was to never mistreat an ally needlessly."

"Why are you so agitated?" Sirius asked. "I mean, _honestly_ , Harry. Few minutes at home and you're trying to start an argument?"

"I'm not starting an argument," Harry replied evenly, hands clenched into tight fists behind his back. "I just—"

"Dear," Lily said calmly, "sit down. The house-elves will bring you something to eat soon enough. How were your last few days at school?"

"Good," Harry replied, a smile appearing on his face. "There's this guy at school– Viktor Krum. Mum, he flies like an eagle! Truls says he's so going to get scouted once he turns fifteen, and I wouldn't be surprised."

"That good, huh?" Lily asked with an amused smile. "Any best friends we should know about?"

"Truls, I guess," Harry said dismissively. "He's the closest, you know. Then there's Filippa whose life ambition is to become my wardrobe supervisor or something. Mum, you should _see_ the outfits she makes me wear sometimes! I mean, I get that she wants to be a designer, but there was this one purple-pink shirt and I couldn't just tell her no, you know. The girls are scary when one of them cries and says that her feelings have been hurt. Once, Clemens said that Petronella looks a bit like Björn, and it's _true_ , you know, since they both have this _really_ orange hair… but then, Petronella almost cried, and Heidi slapped Clemens and said that girls don't look like guys. Clemens couldn't even snap back at her because Nikolai was there, and everybody knows that Nikolai has a crush on Heidi, and Nikolai is bloody _good_ at fighting."

"Preteen drama," Sirius grinned with delight. "What about you, my favourite godson? Any girls you have a crush on?"

"I don't have time for girls," Harry replied promptly, thinking of all the troubles in his life. "I mean, seriously. No time."

"Your studies are that time-consuming?" Lily wanted to know, and Harry nodded quickly.

"Six days out of seven were spent in classes. Although Björn said– and he should be right, I think one of his uncles is in the school board– that next year we'll have fewer hours even though we'll get Divination to add into the schedule. He said it's because all the basics were already focused on when it comes to Herbology, Creatures and History, so they've lessened those classes a bit. Not by much, though, just that we have only three hours a week Herbology, for example. Unfortunately, we still have Transfiguration thousand hours a week."

"Transfiguration can't be _that_ bad," James protested with a laugh, before returning to the very first, original subject. "Harry, I know your mother wrote to you about this already, and you did see him briefly few minutes ago, but I'd like to introduce the two of you to each other. Lupin, as you know, this is my son Harry James Potter. Harry, this is Remus Lupin. He'll live in the basement, and whenever Lily and I are out, he'll stay there. From now on, that place is off limits to you. Alright?"

"Sure," Harry replied, smiling hesitantly at the golden-eyed man who just eyed him warily, as if suspecting the smile to turn into something else.

His mother had said that the man had been polite and nice… but years in a werewolf camp could change a person even if they had been saints in the beginning. However, Harry swore to himself, just like the Beast had turned out to be no monster, he wasn't going to declare Lupin as one, either.

Not yet, at least.

*

During the following weeks, Harry didn't see Lupin almost at all. In fact, he hardly saw _anyone_ – his parents were constantly working, and his godfather seemed to be rushing from one mission to another. The letters from his friends were entertaining, but didn't really fill his days. He had already finished most of the summer homework, and flying alone wasn't that much fun anymore.

This boredom was perhaps the reason as to why Harry didn't pretend to be asleep when Gildy flooed in.

"Harry!" the man shrieked, barging into Harry's room and flinging himself onto the bed, almost squishing Harry under him. "You won't believe what happened! It’s time to party!"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," Harry replied, taking in the sight of the messy hair and slightly wrinkly robes. "What's wrong with you?"

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts is _gone_!" Gildy exclaimed, beaming happily. "And when I say gone, I mean _dead_."

"You have a party because someone died! Look, start backing away from me right now or I swear I'll start screaming."

"Oh, darling, you're so silly sometimes. Of course I'm grieving because Professor Squirrel– I think that was his name, or if it isn't, then close enough at least– died regardless of his relatively young age…"

"Yes. You do look so very grieving," Harry muttered.

"But, as you know, I always look for what is positive," Gildy crowed gleefully, blue eyes sparkling. "I didn't even _apply_ , and yet, I received an invitation to start teaching there! Yes, I, Gilderoy Marshall Hippolyte Lockhart, am going to be an official Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor!"

" _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts? Wait, hold on, _Hippolyte_?"

"It's a bit like the Dark Arts taught at some other schools, only this one is a bit more into defence than attack," Gilderoy explained, ignoring the second part of Harry’s input.

"And _you_ got an invitation…?" Harry asked with disbelief. " _Why_?"

"Well, who'd be a better option? When Headmaster Yaxley told me of the new position… oh, I was _so_ delighted."

"Well," Harry said unsurely, "congratulations, I guess."

"Thank you," the man breathed with a blissful smile. "Now, I can ask advice from Bartemius."

"Uh, he's just the Duelling Instructor. The Dark Arts teacher is Ulrich Dietmar and—"

"I don't want to come across as racist, but I'd rather ask an Englishman."

"If Crouch wasn’t English, you’d suddenly require some intercultural advice, wouldn’t you."

"One day," Gildy said gently, "you will fall in love. When that happens—"

"I'm not going to tell you," Harry deadpanned. "Besides, do you _really_ think that Professor Crouch is going to help you just like that? Reality calling, hello, we got your contact information, classified as Most Urgent—"

"Haven't you always said that practical politics consists in ignoring facts?" Gildy asked, waving his hand dismissively. "And love, my dear Harry, is all about politics. Only that the circles are a bit different. And the rules too. I'll nail him _down_."

"Coming from you, that sounds alarming. Stop it. And don't stalk him."

"It's not _stalking_. It's called dedicated observation."

"How did you even get the job?" Harry asked. "I mean, if you didn't apply…"

"Headmaster Yaxley said that he got a recommendation from someone rather influential," Gildy replied. "I wonder if it's that bloke I saw in his office. Very handsome, if a little bit creepy with his odd red eyes."

 _'No,'_ Harry suddenly thought when a suspicion attacked his mind. _'He wouldn't. Couldn't.'_

"Did this stranger, perhaps, have brown hair as well? A bit taller than you, very pale, very well dressed, and seems to be constantly smirking at something mockingly?"

"Yes," Gildy said, blinking rapidly with surprise, "you know him?"

"No," Harry lied, "just a lucky guess. Work at Hogwarts, huh? Do you already know any teachers there?"

"Well, there's Sybil– she's an old friend. A delightful, if a bit eccentric, woman. Always thought that someone would drop dead and wasn't hesitant in telling them so. Why, I remember when she helped me write Seers and Sirens, she—"

Harry yawned, pressing his face against his pillow, dead set on ignoring the colourful chatterbox in his room.

And eventually, he dozed off.

*

_Pain, confusion, fear. It's cold, he's freezing. The ground is wet, dirty. He is just as filthy._

_He's hungry. He's so hungry that he thinks that his stomach will start eating itself somehow._

_He wonders if he could buy socks. Warm socks. Thick socks that would at least make his feet less… less like the way they are now._

In the basement, Remus Lupin was trying to ignore the ache of his bones. He was so _tired_. His body felt heavy and cold, and all he wanted to do was just lay down somewhere and forget everything, including what the hell he was doing _here_.

He wasn't being mistreated by the Potters, Remus knew that, and he was grateful. He wasn't so naïve as to think that the other werewolves that had been 'relocated' were as lucky as he was. The basement he was in had been cleaned and equipped with a bed, a closet, a table, and a cage he'd crawl into every full moon. He even had his own bathroom. The doorway of the basement was two-layered– first a wooden door that when opened would reveal a set of bars, behind which Remus's room was. House-elves popped in and out four times a day to feed him, and the Potters had even bought him new clothes.

_He was hunting. He hates hunting. Hates the aftertaste of blood and raw meat in his_

_mouth after he's done. Hates the memory of a rabbit struggling beneath his hand. Hates_

_the sound of the neck when it breaks._

_Hates being a predator._

Yes, he was living now in a condition much superior to the one he had left behind. But at the same time… he didn't see the point in him being here, under an unofficial house arrest, in the guise of being taught how to behave. The Potters– and Sirius Black– ignored him most of the time. Sometimes, Lily Potter would send books on Wizarding traditions for him to read. Books such as The Beast Within by Doug Umbridge, How To Be a Human by Betty Brown, and Humans And The Rest– How To Coexist by Marcus Meliflua.

He hadn't touched those books.

He couldn't.

What he _could_ do, however, was guess what kind of advice the books held within their tasteless covers. It was painful to think of such wounding words being printed to be read by thousands of people. Wrong beliefs that would worm their ways into the hearts of the young, undoing the hard work of Dumbledore who had spoken in favour of acceptance and equal rights. With prejudice, there would be no peace– that he was sure of.

This world, this strange and unfair society, was something Remus couldn't bring himself to accept. He had tried to adapt, once; he had tried so _hard_. But how can you adapt when the people surrounding you didn't want to give you the chance to do so? Or if the only way they would let you into their world was if you were to take the role of a slave, a creature that was allowed to live only due to their non-existent, whimsical mockery of mercy.

Sometimes he regrets being born.

_Sometimes he hates others for making him feel like that._

_Hurt, he feels always._

The Dark Lord had created this world, and sometimes, Remus wondered whether or not the man was satisfied with his kingdom. Remus had personally never met the wizard; hell, he hadn't even _seen_ him. It was surprising, really, how most of the wizarding population didn't even know what their ruler looked like. The Dark Lord had forbidden the papers from publishing any pictures they had of him– if they had any– and at public celebrations, he wore a hooded cape. It was strange, and Remus couldn't understand why, but then again, there was a lot about these power-hungry purebloods that he didn't understand.

 _'And yet,'_ he thought _, 'the one who baffles me the most is Harry Potter, a half-blood.'_

When Remus had been told that he'd stay with the Potters, he got to hear quite a few things of the family that seemed to be full of controversies. The Potter line had been pureblood till James Potter married a Muggleborn witch, who seemed to know more of pureblood traditions and etiquette than her husband. The family was considered to be close to the Malfoys _and_ the Weasleys, which was a whole another level of strange. And their son, their son who has been raised in a well-off household, brought up to pureblood manners and beliefs and attended _Durmstrang_ of all schools… that very same boy didn't seem to hold an ounce of hostility or disgust towards _him_ , a _werewolf_.

_Eyes that glare. Eyes that show pity. Eyes that show disgust. Eyes that show fear._

_And eyes that show nothing at all, because they're not looking at him. Will never look at him. Sneers and scoffs and jeers and curses. Hurled words, each one weighing a ton._

_He used to have a place. Now he doesn't._

Then again, Remus had hardly seen the boy ever since he arrived. Looked like a perfect mix of his parents– father's hair, mother's eyes, average in height for his age, and a bit to the thin side. Sometimes, Remus could smell the scent of something… something that reminded him of the cold, wet caves he had sometimes had to live in, lingering around the boy. It was the scent of dirty rain and… and something else Remus couldn't quite recognize.

The boy, Harry, had been right, though. During the war, many people had been purposefully turned into werewolves, simply because they were a better weapon to fight with. Stronger, more resilient, faster, easier to control by Dark curses. And far more 'affordable' to lose. But why would an eleven-year old child be taught that, already? Or was making the students jaded as soon as possible a part of Durmstrang's curriculum? What else were children taught to be, nowadays?

 _'If only Dumbledore had won,'_ Remus thought bitterly, sitting on his bed, with his back against the stony wall. _'I bet things would have been vastly different.'_

*

It was a few days later when Remus was startled out of his nap by the sound of footsteps approaching. These footsteps, however, weren't those of an adult, and thus, Remus was only slightly surprised when he saw Harry Potter pulling the wooden door open and staring at him from behind the solid, silver bars.

"You shouldn't be here," Remus said, and the boy nodded.

"I know," he replied and shrugged. "I know I shouldn't be here."

"Why are you here, then?" Remus asked gently, sitting on his bed, resisting the temptation of moving.

"I'm not sure," the boy, Harry, said. "I might be curious. And bored. Aren't you bored here?"

"I'm being well taken care of," Remus said carefully. "I am grateful."

"Being grateful doesn't really answer anything, you know," Harry said, leaning his forehead against the bars. "I saw the books mum's been sending you."

"They are educational, for sure."

"Biased material is never the best source of education. The best way to get educated is to learn from a neutral source and form your own opinions."

"That's a smart thing to say," Remus said quietly. "Is there anything I could help you with?"

"Not really," Harry replied. "I just wanted to see you. I have never met a werewolf before. I want to understand."

"Understand what?" Remus asked, honestly curious.

"Have you read the Beauty and the Beast?" the dark-haired boy asked suddenly, and Remus shook his head wondering whether or not the boy had changed the subject or if this had something to do with it.

"I haven't."

"It's a story about a man who looked like a monster," Harry explained, "and he really _did_ look like one. Everyone who'd see him would think of him as a monster. But he wasn't, not really. He was just cursed, against his will, to look like one. I know that being a werewolf is something beyond your control, sort of like that curse. I just want to know if there's more to you than that. I want to understand if you can be a werewolf without being a monster."

Harry would never perhaps find out how much his words meant to Remus, right at that moment.

The feeling of tightness in his chest, contractions, giving birth to hope. Tears waiting to fall, disbelief waiting to turn into realization.

"Thank you," Remus breathed, sweaty palms pressed against the cotton fabric of the grey robes he was wearing. The words felt so inadequate in a way they hadn't ever before. Not even when the boy's parents took him in, clothed him and fed him. And when Harry had to leave a few minutes later, lest his parents catch him talking with the werewolf, Remus allowed his tears to fall.

He didn't know what exactly he was crying about.

*

"How's Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

It was the day after he had talked secretly with Remus Lupin, and Harry was at the Weasleys, talking with Ron. His mother had had enough of him moping around the house and promptly sent him to 'reconnect' with Ron Weasley. And reconnect they did. It was much easier to get along with Ron than it was with Draco, for example. Right now, they were sitting in Ron's room, eating home-made cupcakes and drinking tea.

"Hogwarts is neat!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm a Gryffindor, of course. Thank Merlin. Wouldn't know how to live if I was in Slytherin."

"Draco's in Slytherin."

"Yeah, well. _Malfoy_. One of the many reasons why the house just isn't for me, you know."

"I know," Harry nodded. "He'd probably drive you nuts."

"Doesn't help that some professors favour him," Ron said, managing to almost swallow a cupcake whole. "There's Snape. Malfoy gets away with _anything_ during that greasy git's lessons. Snape's the Head of House of Slytherin, so I guess that could be the reason."

"Severus Snape?" Harry asked and, at Ron's nod, continued, "Snape is mum's friend. Dad and Sirius hate him, though, and he hates them just as much. I don't really know why."

"I can guess," Ron muttered. "Anyone sane would hate the man."

"But my mum does like him."

"Mums are like that. My mum thinks he's a good man, too. I don't know why all mums think like that."

"Maybe they think all he needs is a hug," Harry giggled suddenly, and Ron grinned, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I'd get detention for life if I was to tell him that. But oh, maybe we should tell Fred and George! They've been pulling these awesome pranks! Bloody hell, you should have seen this one where they charmed the pumpkin juice to turn into bubbles whenever anyone tried to drink! It was brilliant!"

"And they didn't get expelled?"

"No. Headmaster Yaxley just sort of curled his lip like he'd just stepped on shit and said that he'd rather see such fantastic spell work used on something useful. Then he gave detention and docked points off. But it was worth it."

"I wish I'd seen it."

"Don't you pull any pranks in Durmstrang?" Ron asked, brushing his red fringe to the side. "None at all?"

"None," Harry replied, "we'd get probably cursed for that, there. It's a bit strict and the curriculum is killing me. I mean, we don't even have weekends off, only Sundays!"

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, torn between disgust and pity. "I'm sorry to hear that, mate! What do they teach you there, to need so much time? Hey, wait, I heard that you've got Dark Arts! What're they like?"

"I heard that you've got _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts," Harry asked, just as curiously, "tell me about that?"

"You tell me first about Dark Arts and then I'll tell you about DADA," Ron replied, standing up and grabbing the empty cupcake tray, "but first I'll go refill this– don't want to run out of snacks while talking."

Yes, Harry decided, he really did prefer Ron's company over Draco's. Not that he'd ever tell Draco _or_ Ron about that.

*

"Durmstrang is turning out to be just as you planned, my Lord," Igor Karkaroff said. The Dark Lord was sitting on his throne, trying to not look as bored as he felt.

"Of course," Lord Voldemort murmured, "I wouldn't have it any other way, Igor. Any specific outstanding talents I should be aware of? I have duelled with your seventh years, the ones that graduated recently. And I have to say that, while they are indeed talented, none are outstandingly so. I hope that the next group of students will be better."

"Yes, yes, my Lord," Karkaroff said quickly, bowing, "The seventh years were still taught by the old system, even if their numbers were cut. I have high hopes for the first years that'll be starting their second year soon. They are our _true_ product, my Lord. The first generation of _real_ Durmstrang students who are being _properly_ educated since the very beginning. Each individual will become an outstanding wizard– or witch– to support our cause. Durmstrang, unlike _other_ schools—"

"If that's another jab about Hogwarts," Yaxley cut in sharply, "then I shall ask our Lord to give me the permission to formally challenge you to a duel."

 _'Might be entertaining to watch,'_ the Dark Lord thought, but waved his hand dismissively, "We do not have the time for your hurt pride to be soothed, Yaxley. Karkaroff, do I have to remind you that _I_ graduated from Hogwarts?"

"M-my Lord—"

"Instead of punishing you," Lord Voldemort said, and the spark in his red eyes promised nothing good, indeed, "I have decided that you two are going to volunteer yourselves to go to Italy and give me a report on how the front is dealing there regarding the rebels. Two weeks will be enough, yes? You'll still be returning early enough to keep running your schools."

 _'That's not really what volunteering means,'_ his subconscious mind, that was sounding alarmingly lot like a certain Potter boy, said. But if Voldemort can bend and break rules, then he can just as easily bend and break words and their meanings, damn it. Besides, he hadn't seen the boy– Harry– for months, and he refused to listen to a voice that resembled his. Perhaps he should do something to remind the boy of his existence? Yes, he'd pass along a signal of some kind through one of his followers– someone was bound to know the Potters, after all.

"As you wish, my Lord," Yaxley said with a bow, Karkaroff following his example quickly.

"I trust that you have managed to make at least some of the prisoners speak, Mulciber?" the Dark Lord said then. "I will be most displeased if that's not the case."

"My Lord," Mulciber started warily, "there are several things preventing them from speaking, even if they would _want_ to do so. There are oaths and curses and sometimes something as simple as a language barrier is what's—"

“ _Crucio_ ," Lord Voldemort said, and sighed while watching one of his oldest Death Eaters shudder and scream under the curse. By the time the Dark Lord had lifted the curse, Mulciber was twitching on the floor, incapable of moving, let alone standing up for the next few minutes.

"The thing is," Lord Voldemort started, voice deceivingly pleasant, "that I hate incompetence. We don't get things done when incompetent people mingle amongst us, hindering our progress, assuming that their lack of competence will go unpunished. We can't have _that_ , now, can we?"

"Of course not, my Lord," Bellatrix Lestrange declared, her voice breathy with delight. "He must be punished. Please, my Lord, let _me_ do it! I can, for you I can do it, and I would do it so _well_ , my Lord! He would never again dare to fail you, I—"

"You, Bellatrix, will be taking over the interrogation," the Dark Lord said softly, and the woman let out a strangled gasp, full of pleasure. Lord Voldemort then let his gaze linger on one of his most trusted, and a wicked smile twisted his lips. Bartemius Crouch Junior– although after his father's death over a decade ago nobody really bothered with the ‘Junior’ part anymore– stood silently, staring at Mulciber with a disgusted expression.

"Mulciber, you will take over Crouch's duties as the Duelling Instructor in Durmstrang for the next year," The Dark Lord suddenly decided, and saw Crouch's eyes widening with surprise.

"M-my Lord?" the man started, bewildered. "What shall I do, then?"

"I have assigned a new defence teacher to teach at Hogwarts," the Dark Lord said easily. "Your task will be to… assist him. Perhaps with your help, the quality of Hogwarts education will rise." And even if that didn't happen, it'd be _hilarious_ to see that glittering fraud harassing Crouch.

"Is that not a punishment to Crouch, my Lord?" Karkaroff asked warily.

"Hardly," Lord Voldemort replied. "It'll be just for a year, after which Crouch will resume his job at Durmstrang. He will be rewarded greatly, after his task."

"I live to serve you, my Lord," said Crouch.

"Yes," his Lord said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't live at all. Now, moving on…"

*

"Your birthday is in three days," Lily said while watching her son eat his breakfast, "Is there anything specific that you want?"

"No party," Harry told her, "I know my friends from school wouldn’t probably be able to make it, and I don't want Ron to stress himself to death because of a gift. I also don't want Gildy to take me to another fashion exhibition."

"What _do_ you want, then?"

"There's this book series," Harry started, "The Dark is Rising Sequence. I want it. I borrowed a copy of the second book from Petronella and I want to read the rest of it. I know that I'll like it."

"Who wrote it?" Lily asked, not recognizing the book.

"Susan Cooper," Harry said with practiced nonchalance. "She's a Muggle."

"Why does a friend of yours have a Muggle book? The are no Muggleborns at Durmstrang."

"She got it as a prank from a cousin. She never read it, but mum, I don't _care_ if a Muggle wrote it. The second book was so _good_. Please?"

"Do you expect me to go to a Muggle-made bookstore just for a story, Harry?" Lily asked, displeased and troubled. "Or, well, a book series?"

"I don't understand why you even _have_ a problem with it," Harry said with a scowl. "Your parents were Muggles. What's wrong with Muggles?"

"Harry," his mother said sternly, "I am _not_ going to discuss this subject with you."

"But _why_?" Harry wanted to know. "I don't get it, mum. You—"

" _Harry_ ," Lily's voice was sharp and her glare was piercing, "when I said that I refuse to talk about this subject with you, I meant it. When you're older, you will understand."

"The Countess of Blessington once said," Harry started, "that prejudices are the chains forged by ignorance to keep people apart. Why shouldn't we mingle with Muggles if we don't tell them about magic? It's not like they can _see_ from our appearances that we're magical, as long as we wear proper clothes that don't stand out in Muggle society."

"Quoting wisdom doesn't make you wise," Lily pointed out. "Now finish your breakfast and tell me what you want for your birthday."

"Mum…"

"Harry, I understand that you are going through this, oh, I don't know what to call it… _social justice phase_? I'm sure that you've opened your eyes to see the world around you and now think of it terribly prejudiced and narrow-minded, and you think that everything should change and be more… accepting and friendly. But son, the world doesn't work that way," Lily explained. "If we show our magic to Muggles they'll either hate us right away or start depending on us to do everything. Eventually, someone will start a research on how to distribute magic amongst muggles, and who knows how much we will suffer from that? Or perhaps they'll start hunting us with their mass-destructive weapons."

"Fine," Harry snapped. "I didn't say that we should _share_ our world with Muggles. I just don't see why we should mistreat others and think less of them simply because they were born without magic. It's just as absurd as hating someone just because they were born in another country. It's baseless. It's like a story with a bad plot."

"Darling…"

" _Look_ , I know you think that the stories I read are useless, but that's not true. Just because storybooks teach different things from what schoolbooks do, doesn't mean that they're any less educational."

"How long have you waited to get the chance to tell me that?" Lily a sked.

"Quite a while," Harry admitted. "Doesn't mean I'm not right, though."

"Honey, you're eleven—"

"Might as well be twelve, mum."

"Fine, _twelve_. You're twelve. There's so much you still don't know. When you grow up—"

"Sometimes," Harry cut in, feeling strangely disappointed and angry, "I think that you're so focused on thinking of who I'll become tomorrow that you forget who I am today."

" _Harry_ ," Lily sighed sadly, feeling helpless. She didn't know what to say, how to make him understand that while she _did_ love the idea of everyone living equally in this world, she also knew that it couldn't happen. Naïve dreams were a part of the stories her son loved but didn't have a place in reality. Any signs of being Muggle-friendly could lead to personal disasters, and Lily didn't want that to happen.

She couldn't say any of that, though. She didn't know _how_.

*

The morning of Harry's birthday was rainy.

He was still uneasy with his mother, his father was in a meeting with some other people who were housing werewolves, and Sirius was on yet another mission. Harry didn't get any gifts, and while he knew that it would probably be compensated for later on, it didn't make him feel any less miserable. A bit after half past twelve o'clock, his mother received an urgent call from the hospital, and after a few words to Harry and the house-elves, she, too, left the house.

So, overall, it _sucked_.

Harry _had_ said that he didn’t want any people visiting, but… perhaps he shouldn’t have said that.

He couldn't even count on Gildy dropping by– the man had visited yesterday, cheerfully telling Harry about how Barty-darling was helping him prepare a teaching schedule, and Harry couldn't _believe_ that Tom was probably playing matchmaker. Just how high-ranked was the man, to be able to pull this off? Because it definitely had to be his handiwork.

 _'Maybe I'd be able to find out, but I don't even know his real name,'_ Harry thought. _'I wonder what his views on Muggles are. Probably terrible, considering that he's most likely a very important Death Eater. Does he hate werewolves, though?'_

"What a way to spend a birthday," Harry muttered aloud, standing up. Maybe he should go talk with Lupin? It had been quite long since he saw the werewolf, and he couldn't really form an opinion on him if he didn't spend time with him, right? Should he take something for the man to eat? What about books? Harry couldn't imagine it to be too entertaining to be locked in the basement most of the time, especially if the only books he had were the sort his mum picked.

 _'Maybe I should take a book down with me,'_ Harry thought. _'But no– if mum sees it, she'll figure out that I gave it to him and I don't know what'll happen. Nothing good, that's for sure.'_ For all he knew, his mother could decide to punish Harry or request for Lupin to be moved away. And somehow, the thought of Lupin being shipped off to someone who could possibly abuse him made Harry feel really troubled. This, in turn, led to Harry not carrying anything at all with him when he went to see the werewolf.

Lupin was a miserable sight.

He was pale, sickly, and appeared to be in physical pain. There seemed to be bruises all over his body– well, the parts Harry could see, anyway– and there was a new wound near the man's left ear. His amber eyes looked tired and bloodshot when he saw Harry, and yet, he managed to muster up a smile.

"Full moon last night," he croaked, and Harry understood, holding back a shudder.

"Do you need anything?" Harry asked warily. "Anything to eat?"

"No, thank you," Lupin replied. "I was fed recently. What brings you here?"

"I was feeling lonely," Harry replied, and then continued, saying what he perhaps should not have said, "My parents are away and I've been having lot s of arguments with mum."

"Do you want to talk about it?" How could a werewolf's voice sound so _gentle_? Harry didn't get it. Werewolves howled and growled, and, and, _and_ didn't sound that gentle. Suddenly, Harry found himself crying, and he didn't even understand _why_. Tears came out of nowhere. Or maybe they came from the same place where the words, the _words_ that were suddenly tumbling out of his mouth came from.

"It's my birthday and nobody is here and I don't have gifts and my dad and Uncle Sirius are going more and more often on missions and I've heard so many rumours about the upcoming war and my mother works overtime at the hospital and—" Harry's voice wavered then, and he pressed his lips into a tight line in an attempt to prevent a sob from escaping. It didn't work.

He hadn't even realized that he was that upset about not getting gifts. For heaven's sake, he wasn't a _kid_ anymore. But somehow, for some reason, it mattered. Harry wanted to tell Lupin about Tom and Albus and his mother and Muggles and the stories he adored, but he couldn't. He wanted to somehow talk away the pressure in his chest, to tell all his secrets and let an adult fix them because he didn't want to deal with them. He wanted to ask if it was normal for him to feel like his parents were strangers and were doing things that he couldn't accept. It hurt; it hurt _so much_ when Harry had realized that his parents held beliefs that he could never have. He didn't know whether or not he was wrong or his parents, and he couldn't understand why his views were so hard for his mother to accept.

"I _hate_ war," Harry said, voice a mixture of a whisper and a sob, "I hate fighting. I don't want to fight. I don't want my parents to fight. I hate prejudice too, and I… I just want to live in a world where people are judged by what they _do_ , not by who they are."

"The Rebels believe in that," Lupin told him quietly, and Harry shook his head.

"You cannot prevent and prepare for war at the same time," Harry replied sharply, wiping his tears. "You need at least two sides to be able to _have_ a war, and the Rebels are just as much at fault for this war as Death Eaters. And… and I just wish that we'll get to see the day when a war is declared and no one shows up to fight."

"That would be ideal," Lupin sighed.

"But, like mum, you don't believe that it could happen," Harry said.

"I can't tell you. I don't know what the future looks like."

"Neither does my mum but she still doesn't believe in it. Says it's not realistic."

"You shouldn't involve yourself in an inevitable war," Lupin said, and Harry scoffed.

"I'm Harry Potter," the raven-haired boy replied. "My godfather is in the Dark Lord's inner circle. My mother is a hypocritical Pureblood supremacist despite being actually a Muggleborn, and my father is a Death Eater. I've been told by Bellatrix Lestrange to follow in her footsteps. I attend Durmstrang, the military school with the sole purpose of producing perfect Death Eaters. I will be involved in the war when it starts– and that's a matter of time– regardless of what I want."

"Are you sure?" Lupin asked, and his tone wasn't gentle or soft or kind anymore. It was sharp, and Harry felt as if he was truly being _asked_. As if Lupin wanted him to _think_ before answering, and that's why Harry paused for a few long moments before replying.

"I think so."

"So you're not going to work for your dream?"

"It's not the sort of dream I can fulfil on my own," Harry said.

"But you can start it," Lupin said. "If you think that both Rebels and Death Eaters are wrong, then talk to the people who are neither. If you don't think that war is the answer, then make people share your opinion. Put your future in good hands, Harry. _Your own_."

"I'm just Harry, you know," Harry whispered, suddenly breath less. "Beneath all the big talk, I'm really nobody. I'm, yeah, I'm just Harry."

"Or Harry the Just," Lupin pointed out with a smile that made his amber eyes sparkle mischievously. "How often in life do we complete a task that was beyond the capability of the person we were when we started it. We learn plenty by trying."

"But this is more than just passing an exam," Harry replied, and while he _knew_ that the idea he was entertaining was impossible, his heartbeat still sped up with excitement, and something in him, in his heart, in his mind, shifted, "and I don't want to take over the world."

"You don't need to take over the world to change it," Lupin told him. "Change the people, and with them, the world will change."

"But if I can't even make my parents understand that their prejudices are stupid, then how can I change the world as you say?" Harry said, and the moment during which he believed that he _could_ change the world passed, as if he had never felt so hopeful and magnificent. He was again just one random kid in his parent's basement talking with a down-on-his-luck werewolf. "I'll be going now. I think I might need to revise a bit– school starts in a month after all."

"All big things started out as an absurd dream," Lupin called after him, still taking care to not stand too close to the silver bars, as Harry made his way out of the basement. "That Dark Lord of yours, for example, couldn't have been born a Dark Lord."

Harry shut the door of the basement behind him and wondered if he could spend the next summer holed up in his flat at Durmstrang.

Probably not.

*

Two days before his second year at Durmstrang was to start, Harry was woken up by his mother shaking him awake.

"Get dressed quickly and come down to the floo fireplace," she whispered, and there was something almost pained in her expression.

"What time is it?" Harry asked and yawned, cuddling the warm blankets around him. "Do I _have to_ wake up?"

"It's half past four. I have set out your clothes for you," his mother replied, moving away. "If it will wake you up, then shower quickly and then get dressed, Harry. We don't have time." Her voice was still low as a whisper, and Harry yawned again, wondering why she was acting to strangely. He did, however, do as told and, in less than half an hour, was standing half-asleep, dressed in a set of black robes in front of the fireplace. He could hear his mother walking– her high-heeled shoes making a clacking sound against the wooden floor. Soon enough, she appeared in front of him wearing a black dress and a fitting hat that even had a black veil that, while it didn't hide her face, gave a rather mysterious impression.

"Where's dad?" Harry asked.

"He went already before us," Lily replied, brushing off imaginary dust from her son's shoulder. "Behave, alright? Be quiet unless you're spoken to."

"Where're we going? Is it a funeral?"

"No. It's not. I'll explain when we arrive."

And that's how Harry found himself flooing with his mother, her hand gripping his shoulder tightly enough to bruise. Only when Harry stumbled out of the fireplace on the other end, did he realize that perhaps his mother had a _real_ reason to be so concerned. He was in a huge hall that he wasn't sure how exactly to describe– its walls seemed to be made of black stone and the torches floating above their heads weren't a good source of light. Everyone was dressed in black robes, and Harry could pick up the atmosphere– a mix of excitement, fear, disgust and glee.

 _'What's going on?'_ he wondered and noticed that the people present were studiously avoiding what looked like a tall, thick tree with no branches. He also noticed that there were no other people even _close_ to his age present. Feeling increasingly alarmed, Harry grabbed his mother's hand and pressed himself against her side.

"Lily," a familiar voice called, and Harry saw his father and Uncle Sirius walking towards them.

"James," Lily breathed, a sound full of misery, "does Harry _really_ have to be here?"

"The Dark Lord specifically invited all three of you," Sirius whispered. "I do not know why– nobody does, I even asked Snape and Bella and Malfoy. I'm sorry. It came out of _nowhere_."

"Is this because we're housing a werewolf?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't relate to this at all."

"What is this?" Harry asked, and his father gave him a look that mirrored the one Lily had had when she woke him up. James kneeled in front of his son and grabbed his arms, trying to smile reassuringly.

"Everything will be all right," he said. "I promise you, Harry. Try to focus on something else, alright? List the ingredients of Veritaserum in your head or something."

 _'You're not exactly making me feel any better,'_ Harry thought, but kept quiet. James stood up, squaring his shoulders and, grabbing Lily's hand, turned to look at a balcony that Harry hadn't noticed before. Soon enough, the boy realized that it was not only his parents and godfather looking at the balcony but everyone else as well. Strangely, Harry felt an odd kind of pressure in the air long before the glass doors of the balcony opened, and a man wearing a hooded robe appeared. And then, suddenly, everyone was kneeling down. Harry, too, as he was pulled by his mother.

"Rise," the man commanded after a moment, his voice closer to a hiss than anything else. Harry felt his insides twist and blood run cold when the realization dawned. This man, this person who could make all these powerful witches and wizards kneel down like that… this couldn't be anyone else but the Dark Lord Voldemort himself.

"My faithful followers," the Dark Lord started, and Harry couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of familiarity all of a sudden, "thank you for arriving on this early hour to witness the execution of Marius Maucett, accused of treason for protecting Rebels and shielding them from our reach."

Execution.

_Execution._

Harry flinched, turning to stare at the branchless tree again, only now realizing that it wasn't really a tree at all, but a stake. Was someone seriously going to be— No, impossible. Not in front of him. This kind of… _something_ just didn't happen in front of him. Harry knew that if his parents could, they would send him home. But they didn't have the authority– not even Sirius did. What about Tom? If Tom was there, maybe he could allow Harry to go home and not see—

An old man, short and thin and wrinkly and clearly in pain, was dragged by two men towards the stake. He was lifted by a spell to be tied high enough for everyone in the hall to see him, and Harry had to look down when one of the two men spelled seven torches to surround him while the other put up the wards protecting the witnesses from the fire. Harry was feeling increasingly nauseated and wished that he could pass out or just _vanish_ or _wake up_ and call this a nightmare. The screams he was hearing weren't his own, but those of the man who was slowly being burnt to death.

The scent of burning flesh filled the room, and Harry wondered why exactly this was happening. Had his parents done something to anger the Dark Lord for the whole family to be punished like this? He didn't want to _see_ , he didn't want to _hear_ , he didn't want to _smell_. He didn't want to _know_. Harry had so far thought that the captured Rebels were executed by a simple Killing Curse, not in this kind of terrible, inhumane way. To be burnt on the stake was… it was _wrong_ in so many ways.

Harry was gripping his mother's hand again, trying to block out everything. He didn't know for how long they stood there– the man didn't die quickly, and most of Harry's thoughts went back and forth between _'I want to throw up'_ and _'just die already'_. He wished he was elsewhere, _anywhere_ else. He wished, he wished so _hard_.

And then, for an instant, everything changed. The scent of burning body changed into that of rain and smoke. The temperature dropped from slightly hot to quite cold. His mother's hand vanished from his grip, and he couldn't hear the convict's screams anymore. Just as soon as Harry had realized the change, everything turned back, and he was left dazed and unsure, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. By the time he came back to his senses, his mother was already pulling him towards the Floo, and Harry caught a glimpse of the Dark Lord staring at– not to sound arrogant or anything– but right at him, _Harry_ , of all people.

Even if he was to live forever, Harry doubted that he'd ever forget the execution he had just witnessed. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, it wasn't _humane_. If law condoned this sort of act, then _the law was wrong_.

But there was nothing Harry could do about it.


	7. Chapter 7

" _Why_ , Sirius? Why were we invited?"

"I already told you, Lily _, I don't know_. I honestly don't know. I can't just march up to the Dark Lord and ask him why!"

From Harry's point of view, the time between the execution and school was spent in a daze.

He didn't feel like he had slept at all, and yet, he wasn't sure what he had done during the hours he was awake. He was vaguely aware of his parents and godfather sometimes trying to talk with him, but he couldn't focus.

How could he, with the scent of a burning human body still lingering around and the screams still ringing in his ears? It was all in his head– Harry knew that. He had showered five times and bathed twice during the past two days, and the clothes he had been wearing for the execution were tucked in a corner of his closet after being washed by the house-elves. There was _no way_ that any scent could truly be so stuck on a person as to survive through all that.

A part of Harry's mind also thought of the instant during which he had somehow slipped away– _Where? To the train station?–_ but he couldn't wrap his mind around how _that_ could have happened and therefore tried very hard to not think of it at all. Harry was _tired_ of things that didn't make sense.

"What did the Dark Lord say? When he told you to invite us, I mean."

"He asked: who knows the Potters. He didn't give any reasons, and it's not like I could just _ask_. Then, half an hour before I was to attend the execution, he ordered me to fetch all three of you. He specifically told me to include Harry. He knows Harry's name. He said, _'Don't forget Harry Potter.'_ "

"You don't think he knows about the wand, do you?"

"I… I don't know…"

There was a lot Harry couldn't stop thinking about. Not only the execution itself, but also the man who had ordered it to happen, the hooded man, _the Dark Lord_ , had been there in person. Harry had seen him. Suddenly, having that man's wand's brother felt somehow _different_. Far more dangerous and risky, and Harry found himself staring at his wand with reluctant wariness. Every time he thought of lifting it and casting a spell, he thought of the Dark Lord's hand curling around his own wand and the Dark Lord's lips ordering the brutal execution.

Had Tom been there? Harry hadn't seen him, though, but he _must_ have been. Perhaps he had been standing behind the Dark Lord or somewhere near him? What had _he_ thought of the execution? Was it a normal occurrence? Did he _approve_ of such events?

It was monstrous. Burning people on the stake. It was… it was… Harry couldn't find the words to describe how exactly it made him feel.

"Maybe it's good that school is starting. It could give him something else to think about."

"Yes… A change of environment could cheer him up. Maybe we should buy him a book? You know how he cheers up after reading a good story."

"He asked for a series of books… I didn't want to buy them because they're written by a Muggle, but maybe I should get them anyway. James, I _hate_ seeing Harry so sad. Why _our_ baby?"

"He'll be alright, Lily. I promise you. We'll get those books and send them to him, and in no time he'll be alright again."

The execution wasn't something Harry wanted to talk about with his friends, especially if there was a risk of them asking for _details_ about it. But at the same time it didn't feel like something he could just hide away– it'd mean keeping big secrets from his friends, and that didn't exactly make him feel comfortable, considering that he had already several secrets he was hiding. The wand, the train station… even _Lupin_ , in a way, was a secret.

Why were secrets such a burden? It didn't make any sense why hiding some information felt so awful, especially since the information really didn't concern anyone but him. He'd just have to be careful to never mention anything about them, and eventually, he'd get used to it. Harry wished that he could go and talk with Lupin– the werewolf had a rather soothing presence– but with his parents and Sirius home, Harry couldn't do that. Not to mention that Harry's own portkey to Durmstrang would activate in less than three hours, and the likelihood of having the opportunity to sneak away for a chat was non-existent.

Harry wondered if Lupin had ever seen an execution. It was a possibility. How often did the Dark Lord have those executions anyway? How many times— is it a routine already? A tradition that reminds his strongest followers of what happens to people who cross him? Using fear to keep them grounded? Why had _Harry_ been invited, then? Could it be that Tom—? No, no. Tom wouldn't—

"Harry," Sirius said, sitting next to his godson, interrupting his thoughts. "How are you feeling?"

"You don' t need to act as if I'm sick or something," Harry replied, "because I'm not."

"Your parents have told me that you've had some nightmares."

" _Once_. I had only _one_ nightmare."

"Do you want to, uh, talk about it?"

"Would there be any point?" Harry asked. "Have you ever read the _Belgariad_?"

"No," Sirius replied, wondering if it was a cult book or an introduction to a new religion. "What is it about?"

"It's a story," Harry started. "In that story, there's a god called Torak. His people sacrifice humans for his sake and serve him out of fear, not out of love. Eventually, Torak is defeated by the hero, who does what is right even when he's plagued by fear."

"I see," Sirius said, not really understanding what Harry was getting at. The boy continued after a fleeting smile.

"The Dark Lord uses the same tactic as Torak, even if the people he kills are his enemies," Harry said. "One day, people will get over their fear, and in the absence of fear, how would he control them?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harrykins," Sirius said, ruffling Harry's hair. "There's more to control than just fear. Either way, you're way too young to be thinking of such things, yeah? How about we go for a bit of flying before you have to go to school?"

"Alright," Harry agreed reluctantly. Maybe it would, indeed, do him some good.

*

"Harry!" Filippa shrieked before flinging herself at the boy, hugging him with surprising strength as soon as the portkey took him to the square in front of the apartment complex. "You're taller! Look at yo— hey, hold on. Did you stop sleeping or something? Why do you look so-"

"Drop it," Harry said flatly. "Just don't ask. _Please_ , Filippa."

"Are you alright?" the Italian girl asked, previous cheer vanishing, leaving concern in its wake. "Harry?"

"Are the others here yet?" Harry asked instead of replying. "How are you, Filippa?"

"Petronella, Nikolai and Lorenzo are in their flats," Filippa answered, "I had planned on waiting outside here to greet everyone, but I guess we'll see them tomorrow at the homeroom class. We have one already at nine o'clock, and Professor Dietmar will give us our schedules and stuff. And I'm alright, I suppose. Harry, are you _sure_ you're…"

"Filippa," Harry interrupted. "Please."

"Fine," Filippa said. "For now. Fine. Let's go to your flat and I'll make some tea and we'll pretend that you're honestly alright, if that will make you feel better." Harry nodded, feeling relieved, and walked with her to his apartment where she indeed set out to make some tea while Harry went to check that his trunk had indeed arrived safely. He found it in the bedroom. Hedwig's cage was there as well and Harry set her out to fly for a few hours– he knew how much she hated being in a cage.

"What were you doing down there at the portkey square?" Harry asked, sitting down on a chair. “Were you really waiting for everyone to turn up?”

"Well, I just wanted to say hi to everyone as they arrive," Filippa replied. "Lorenzo's feeling a bit down and isn't much of a company. You see, there've been some political fights going on in Italy and rebel activities have been sighted, and since his family lives right in the midst of the Wizarding Rome where it all is happening, they're in a bit of danger. Not to mention that his sister is one of the reporters working on that."

"What about your family?"

"Oh, well, we're not into politics– we work with fashion, all of us, even though it's Aunt Peppita who's the most famous. Everyone knows we're neutral. Besides, my family's mansion is hidden in a muggle neighbourhood in Padua. I'll actually be the first person in my family to become a Death Eater."

"What about Petronella and Nikolai?"

"Petronella said that she forgot to finish one of the summer essays and is going to do that tonight even if it kills her."

"And Nikolai?"

"Well," Filippa started quietly, setting two cups of tea finally on the table and sitting down as well. "Harry, does Nikolai come across as a bit… odd?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked curiously. "I haven't spent that much time with him, to be honest. All I can say is that he's very smart and looks like he's up to something mischievous."

" _Mischievous_ ," Filippa repeated. "I don't think so, Harry. I mean, I've heard rumours of him doing pretty nasty stuff. Like burning dogs alive and drowning ca— Harry?" The girl's voice rose in alarm when Harry seemed to lose all colour in his face, his hand clenching the hot cup of tea tightly. Harry, for his part, was feeling suddenly overwhelmingly nauseated, and he didn't want to hear about _burning_ , didn't want to hear about _fire_ , didn't want to hear— Breathing was difficult, and Harry didn't understand why. _He_ wasn't the one breathing smoke in, was he? And yet, he couldn't _breathe_ and he could feel tears burning behind his eyelids and he could hear fire _somewhere_ and—

"Harry," Filippa repeated, soothingly this time, not sure what had triggered such a reaction, moving to sit next to Harry instead of in front of him, gripping his shoulders and trying to make him focus on her. "Just breathe in and out. Come on, calmly. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold on, I'll bring you some water." No, _no_ , he didn't want to be alone right now. Why was he suddenly feeling like this, as if he was back watching the execution again?

"Don't leave," Harry choked out, and suddenly– why was he crying anyway? If he was so terrified, so shocked, so _traumatized_ , why had he waited till _now_ to react? This didn't make any sense, but Harry felt as if nothing really did, and it all was so _overwhelmingly awful_.

"It's okay," Filippa said, voice wavering slightly. "You can cry. Come on, let it all out." Harry might have made a sound of some sort, before just pressing his face against her shoulder and sobbing loudly, his hands gripping the silky fabric of her shirt. Filippa ran her fingers through his soft hair gently, unsure of what to do to comfort one of her best friends.

Robin Hood had never cried. Had Belgarion? What about Gulliver? Peter Pan? No, his stories had never talked about heroes crying over things like this. Heroes weren't— heroes were so much braver than _him_. Heck, had even _Snow White_ cried? Cinderella's step-sisters had brazenly cut parts of their body to try and fit their feet into a shoe of glass and probably never shed a tear. If even _side characters_ can man up, then why not Harry, who wasn't a character at all, but a _person_?

But he just _couldn't_. These tears might have been waiting for the past few days to be let out, and now that Harry had started, he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop thinking of the execution hall, the fire, the victim… and the Dark Lord. Why had Harry been invited there? Really, _why_? He couldn't, for the life of him, come up with a sensible reason. Maybe he should ask Tom? If anyone knew, it'd have to be that guy. Maybe he could send a message to him? Would Hedwig be able to find Tom— no. Tom wasn't even his real name, and Harry wasn't sure of how Hedwig could even locate him. Maybe he could _try_ , anyway?

"I'm sorry," Harry croaked, pulling away from Filippa after a while. "I know you don't need any more troubles."

"Don't be an idiot," Filippa replied. "You look exhausted, though. How about you go take a nap?"

"You're not going to ask me anything?"

"Maybe when you wake up, if you feel like you want me to ask about it."

"Are you going to tell the others?" Harry wanted to know, rubbing his eyes. "I mean…"

"If you don’t mind, I'll only tell Truls," Filippa told him honestly, "because I know how much he cares for you. I'll bring him here in the evening and we'll catch up, yeah?"

"I'm _sorry_ ," Harry said again, "for, well, being like this."

"Don't apologize," Filippa said. "It's just… Harry, don't keep secrets from us if there's no absolute need for it, all right? Because secrets build a wall around their carriers, separating them from the people around. Secrets can be isolating in a way solid walls can never be. Secrets can make people _lonely_. At least, that's what my papà used to say. And being lonely is sad."

"Then—" Harry started, but Filippa cut him off, shaking her head.

"I'm still not going to insist for you to tell me now. Go to sleep, Harry. When you wake up, Truls and I will be here. I'm borrowing your key."

"Thank you," Harry breathed, not sure of what else to say. Filippa smiled, and Harry felt that he didn't even have to say anything aloud for her to understand how grateful he was.

*

Harry woke up to see Truls lying next to him on the bed, reading a book. The only source of light was coming from the wand his friend was holding in his hand.

"What time is it?" Harry mumbled, before yawning and burying his face into the pillow. He felt as if he could sleep forever – it was warm and soft and comfortable and he had the nagging feeling that something was _wrong_ , but he didn't quite remember _what_ exactly that was, and he didn't _want_ to remember, either.

"Half past eight in the evening," Truls replied, shutting his book and setting it on the floor before rolling to face Harry. "Filippa told me that you were crying."

"Oh…" Harry remembered, not only the execution, but also the embarrassing, tear-filled minutes during which he acted like an overgrown baby. What did Filippa think? Good grief, he had been _crying_! How _humiliating_.

"Want to talk about it?" Truls asked.

"Not here," Harry said. _'Not ever,'_ he thought, knowing already that that was one wish that wouldn't come true.

"I think here's the best," Truls told him. "We talk here, and then we move to get some tea and leave the bad thoughts behind."

"Is Filippa…?"

"No. Apparently, Lorenzo is going through some shit right now and she's comforting him. Do you want me to get her?"

"No need," Harry said quietly, and sighed, clenching his eyes shut. He _wanted_ to talk, but wasn't sure from where to start.

"Come on," Truls said, pressing his body closer to Harry and wrapping his arms around his friend. "Don't go into that defensive turtle mode now." That brought out a chuckle from Harry, who then took a deep breath before starting.

"I witnessed an execution," Harry whispered, and instead of tensing, Truls rubbed Harry's back comfortingly, and for those moments it seemed as if only the two of them existed in Harry's world. To hear the heartbeat of someone, to feel their breath and warmth… It meant that they were _alive_ , and that was exactly what Harry needed right then.

"When?"

"Two days ago. It was very early when my mum came to get me. They burnt a man alive. For supposedly helping the Rebels."

"And it makes you feel…?"

"Sick. _Angry_. Terrible. I don't know. It's just… wrong. I don't know what to tell you, Truls. I don't know how to make this go away."

"Is it just the execution that makes you feel like this?" Truls asked quietly, and Harry shifted, pushing himself up to look down at his friend, seeing only the clear blue eyes in the darkness.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"The man who ordered that execution…"

"Is the Dark Lord."

"Yeah, and our parents serve the Dark Lord. Eventually we, too, will be servants of the man who ordered that execution," Truls said quietly. "And it's not the first and won't be the last execution that will take place. Actually, it might not be the last execution you'll have to witness. It's not a question of what is right and what is wrong… it's going to happen, Harry. You can't let it bring you down."

"But I can't accept it!" Harry exclaimed, and clenched his eyes shut again to hold back the tears while Truls just pulled him back into the hug.

"You don't have to," Truls told him. "Suck it up now, and when you can, change it."

"How can I stop an execution if it's ordered by the Dark Lord? No matter how influential I could become—"

"You might not be able to ever stop the executions, but you can change the way they're done."

"Oh," Harry said, and felt as if he was on the verge of realizing something great, but he couldn't quite grasp it. "That didn't… cross my mind."

"Yeah," Truls sighed, tugging playfully at his friend's fringe. "Instead of brutal, painful ways, you can order an execution to happen through an overdose of sleeping potion– it's painless, probably. Or the killing curse– it takes an instant. Trust me, my big brother's got a master's degree on killing methods. He studied in Svergies Nationella Magi Universitet, and it's pretty prestigious in its own right."

"Universi…tet?"

"It's basically more school after graduating from any of the normal institutions. It's like… if you want to specialize in something, get a master's degree to teach or anything, you go there to study for a few extra years to become an expert. I'm not clear on the details, though. I’m not planning on studying _more_ after Durmstrang."

"Oh."

"How about we go get something to drink, now?" Truls suggested. "I don't think that tea will be good though– we don't want to stay up all night."

"I've got some herbal infusions," Harry said, sitting up and looking at his friend. "Thank you, Truls."

"You'd do the same for me," Truls told him, fingertips touching Harry's hand. "And you've already done more."

"Are you doing this because I saved your life?" Harry asked, feeling something inside him twist. Truls shot him an insulted look and shook his head, sitting up as well.

"Of course not," he replied. "The life debt has nothing to do with this. We're friends, Harry. Right?"

"Right," Harry breathed, turning his hand and entwining his fingers with Truls's own. " _Best_ friends."

*

The following day, everything seemed brighter, somehow clearer even though Harry knew that he'd never really forget the execution and it'd take him quite a while before he'd feel completely alright again. He didn't feel tired anymore, though, and there was an inkling of happiness inside him when he was walking towards the homeroom class with Truls. Certainly enough for Harry to muster up a smile when they entered and saw Filippa, making the girl beam back in response.

"Jakob and Björn are yet to arrive," Heidi sighed. "I hope they won't be late… Truls! Harry! How are you two?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied, sitting down. "And you?"

"I'm _fabulous_ ," the girl grinned brightly, her blue eyes sparkling with delight. "We're second years! Did you see any of the new first years yet? Oh gosh, I can't believe we're not the newbies anymore! We're veterans!"

"Well, I wouldn't say _veterans_ ," Clemens said, just as Jakob and Björn came in. "I just hope that no one will expect us to mingle with the new first years."

"Let's hope so," Petronella agreed. "Hi Jakob, Björn."

"I wonder what kind of schedule we'll have this year," Filippa sighed. "I can't wait."

"I doubt that it'll be anything good," Harry said gloomily. "Bet you we've still got millions of Transfiguration periods. Every day."

"Oh, _Harry_ ," Petronella laughed, leaning to pat his arm, "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"I can tutor you if there's anything difficult," Truls promised just as the classroom's door opened and Professor Dietmar entered. It was odd how that man never changed– always finely dressed and appearing both timid and strangely strong at the same time.

"Today is Tuesday," the man said as soon as he sat on his chair at the front. "Every Tuesday, at nine o'clock, you'll be in this classroom. It's our official homeroom period. I'll pass you your schedules and then address a few points."

 _'I hope nothing too bad,'_ Harry thought and couldn't wait to get to see his schedule. The first thing he did when he got the piece of paper was to count the Transfiguration periods– _five hours_ every week. Why so _many_? Why couldn't they have more… Charms instead?

"As you can see, you'll be starting Divination this year," Professor Dietmar said. "Three hours of Divination by Professor Folke Benyamin. Also, you might notice that, for example, you'll have only four hours of Herbology every week, instead of five like last year. If there's anything unclear, you can just ask– I don't want to waste the whole hour talking about schedules."

 _'I wonder what we'll learn in Divination,'_ Harry mused silently. _'I hope it's actually something useful. It'd be so neat to be able to see the future before it happens.'_

"You're now starting your second year at Durmstrang, and you will be expected to behave in a manner that brings no shame upon this institution. You are to set an example to all of the other students– old and new. Because you ten are the first generation of what Durmstrang is today. You are expected to keep your educational standards high and have an outstanding academic record…"

 _'Oh God, that sounds awful,'_ Harry thought, sighing and getting increasingly distracted. Eventually, he ended up staring at Lorenzo, wondering whether the other boy was thinking of his family. _'If I was in his situation, I probably would try to make a deal with the Gone Tribe to keep my family safe.'_

But luckily, Harry's family was safe. Ever since Lupin had been assigned to their care, Harry's father hadn't been called for any risky, time-consuming missions. His mother worked at the hospital, and Harry was certain that Sirius was strong enough to take care of himself. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Lorenzo, and he wondered if there was anything he'd be able to do to help the other boy. They weren't that close, though, and Harry trusted Filippa to do the job better.

 _'What about Truls' family, though?'_ Harry suddenly realized. _'They're into politics or something. Pretty high up. What if they are in danger, too? What if it's Truls who'll one day feel like he's alone? Would I be enough to help him? I wouldn't even know what to say!'_

And then Harry remembered the feeling of Truls's hand in his, the comfort sweeping through their entwined fingers, and decided that sometimes words aren't needed as much as gestures.

*

The first few weeks of school passed quickly. Harry, much to his own surprise, didn't struggle much with Transfiguration so far, and while he would never enjoy the subject, he was no longer actively praying for its banishment from the curriculum.

It was a rainy Sunday evening that found him once again walking through Garden of Grindelwald, enjoying the weather and wondering if he could learn a charm that would keep him shielded from rain if he wanted to read a book outside. So deep in his thoughts he was, weighting theories and possibilities, that Harry at first didn't see the huge snake in the bushes. But when he did see it, Harry froze, feeling his breath catch in his throat and his heart skip a beat, mind trying to calculate whether or not he could run away or if the snake would be able to catch him.

 _'Maybe I could hex it,'_ Harry thought, swallowing and trying to stay calm. _'It's so big… I wonder how poisonous it is…'_

"She's not going to attack you," a familiar voice said, and Harry was tempted to turn and glare at Tom– because _of course_ it was him, who else would set a massive snake loose on school grounds, damn it – but he wasn't going to turn his back to this creature. Warily, he watched it and didn't relax until he felt Tom standing right behind him, with the man's hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, still staring at the snake. "Is it… she, he… yours?"

"She is Nagini," Tom replied, "the Dark Lord's pet. I find this garden to be exceptionally enjoyable and therefore decided to share my… enjoyment."

"With the Dark Lord's pet?" Harry said, finally turning his head to look at the man. "There're some things I want to talk about, with you."

"I'm certain," Tom drawled. "Let us go find a seat, unless you wish to stand here while talking. I'm not in the mood of standing still if I can sit."

"All benches are wet," Harry pointed out, allowing himself to be led towards one. With a scoff, Tom used a spell that made the chair dry, and Harry blinked, trying to not feel embarrassed by his error. "Alright, that works, I guess."

"You said you wanted to talk about something specific," Tom said, and his tone was… oddly anticipating.

"What brought you here?"

"Is _that_ what you're curious about?"

"No," Harry admitted, feeling reluctant to get to the actual point and therefore deciding on another topic he wanted to know about. "You… made Gildy– Gilderoy Lockhart– teach at Hogwarts. Just… _why_? And _how_ high-ranked _are_ you, to be able to make that happen?"

"The school was in need for a Defence teacher, and I simply suggested one," Tom said with a shrug. "There's nothing suspicious about that. Really, none at all."

"You're not trying to play matchmaker, are you? Because now, Gildy has an excuse to harass Professor Crouch, and the thought of you trying to fix up those two is just wrong in _so many ways_."

"Oh, nonsense. Besides, wouldn't it be amusing to watch the two of them fumble around?"

"I don't trust your motives," Harry deadpanned. "Seriously."

"You're throwing out such accusations with ease," Tom said, smirking. "I'm hurt."

"I doubt it," Harry muttered, brushing his fringe to the side. "I know you have some ulterior motives, and I'm going to find out what. Also, stop avoiding my other question. How high ranked are you, exactly?" Tom shrugged with an amused smile that made Harry immediately sceptical.

"If I told you that I'm actually—," he started.

"Don't be stupid," Harry cut in, and the man's self-assured expression turned into a bewildered one.

"I didn't say anything yet!"

"You were about to say something absurd. Like, like…"

"Like what?"

"Like claim to be the Dark Lord himself, or something."

"That," Tom said, "is because I _am_."

"Don't be stupid," Harry sighed, casting a pitying glance at the man. "It's alright, though. You're cool even if you don't control half the world."

"This is so bizarre," Tom muttered. "Fine. Believe what you want, but I'm going to say _I told you so_ when you realize the truth."

"If you're the Dark Lord," Harry said, suddenly feeling anxious and far less amused, the dulled feelings from the execution weeks ago surfacing again. "Then… why would you have invited me to the… to see the… Right before school started. The execution." Tom stared at Harry for a few long moments with an unreadable expression, before turning away.

"I saw you. You didn't enjoy it," the man finally said.

"Of course I didn't enjoy it," Harry exclaimed. "Why did the Dark Lord want _me_ there? And if you saw me, then, why… why couldn't you… I don't know. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to see it. It was terrible. Monstrous. Inhumane!"

"Really?" Tom asked, appearing to look honestly surprised. "I thought it was entertaining."

"Entertaining," Harry repeated, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. " _Entertaining_?"

"Yes. It's… fascinating, really, to see how permanently a life can end. How some people can be robbed of their tomorrows by a simple order, reminding us that real life is merciless like that. Some people enjoy this by nature. To others, it's an acquired taste. I take it that you belong to the latter category."

"It was wrong, what was done to that man."

"Why?"

"What do you mean _why_?" Harry demanded to know. "He was burnt alive. Didn't you hear his screams or were three weeks enough for you to forget them? Doing something like that to another human being is—"

"Stop," Tom hissed, and there was a tone in his voice that Harry had never heard before. The boy shut up, feeling as if he had just gotten himself into serious trouble, yet not understanding why exactly he was feeling so. "I _did_ notice before, these… moral things you seem to have. I do not understand you. You seem to live in a world of stories you keep carrying around where right and wrong are as different as white and black, and you want to apply that on real life. It won't work. There are no noble knights who can win dirty battles, Harry Potter, and _all battles are dirty_. Maybe you should realize that there's a difference between real life and fairytales. You need to know that the world is full of ideals, but most of them cannot be applied."

"So what was the point of me seeing that execution?" Harry asked, convinced that Tom was wrong, but not knowing how to express himself well enough to get the message across.

"If it didn't serve as entertainment," Tom replied. "Then maybe it will serve as a lesson. It was a punishment to a Rebel supporter and a warning to others of the same mind-set, and the receiving end was a criminal. What does his life matter?"

"Every life matters."

"What a naïve statement. Next, you'll claim that people are equal— Oh, _come on_ , don't look at me like that. People are _not_."

"Don't sneer at me," Harry said quietly, staring at Tom with a hurt expression. "People should be treated as equal as long as they haven't done anything to deserve else."

"Of course," Tom scoffed. "And when people become equal everywhere, eventually they start taking liberties. I have the right to do this; I have the right to do that. Then everyone has the right to do everything, because with everyone equal there's no one superior to set the rules of the playground. And you cannot count on the flimsy human morals."

Harry wanted, so desperately, to make Tom understand. But how could he? Harry had thought himself to be eloquent and articulate, and yet, right now, he couldn't find a single word he could use. Disappointed in himself, Harry glared at Tom, vowing silently to never again allow himself to feel this helpless during a discussion.

"You're going to be a Death Eater, not a saint," Tom said after a long moment of silence. "Saint Potter sounds ridiculous, anyway."

"Was it you?" Harry asked. "Who got me invited to the execution?"

"Perhaps."

"I'm not going to change my mind."

"I didn't think you would. You'd probably be a Gryffindor, if you were at Hogwarts." Harry shrugged, not really understanding what exactly being a Gryffindor mattered. "You're blind to the dangers of the irrationalism clouding your judgement."

"I don't understand you."

"That's because you refuse to understand that some people enjoy causing pain. Or rather– are indifferent to it. Also… you're just twelve, are you not? I admit to being disappointed, though. I thought that you'd be mature enough to accept the execution for what it was– instead you view it as a wrong deed and stubbornly refuse to accept the facts."

" _What_ facts?"

"That it happens. And will happen again. That it's a necessity, not something that can be defined as wrong or right." Tom stared at Harry, red eyes narrowed, and the boy suddenly realized that he, in fact, didn't know _anything_ about the man standing in front of him. Tom could be a mass-murdering criminal or a… a madman on the loose or something.

"I don't think we'll reach a point of agreement," Harry said.

"You need to grow up," Tom told him, standing up and reaching for the snake– Nagini– obviously intending on leaving. "Dreaming of ideals in a world that respects nothing but power will be the end of you."

Harry said nothing while watching the man leave.

Suddenly, he was missing Truls almost too much.

Tom, on his part, wondered why he bothered talking with this child whose morals were irritating him. But he was curious– the boy was strange, and as annoying as the boy's views were, Tom was still fascinated. But that wasn't the only thing.

The boy didn't mention it, and Tom hadn't expected him to. He didn't want to ask about it yet, either. Not until he got a confirmation on whether or not the boy had, for an instant during the execution, flickered away.

*

The following day, Harry was still thinking of Tom during the first period. He couldn't help but feel as if he had… made a mistake. He wasn't sure at which point, exactly, or if he was just being overly suspicious.

 _'I need to learn more about Tom,'_ he decided _. 'I must. I won't return to the garden before I know at least who I'm dealing with.'_ But he didn't even know Tom's real name! How he wished that he could ask Sirius and simply describe Tom to him. But then his godfather would want to know _how_ Harry had met the man, and the boy was a bit reluctant to do _that_.

"For homework," Professor Dietmar said, and Harry started packing his bag with relief. "I want a short essay on five water plants you think are most useful. Dismissed."

"We have Herbology tomorrow already," Petronella whined when they left the classroom. "I hope that we won't be getting any more essays to do today."

"Considering that we've got Dark Arts next, and Professor Dietmar's brother is teaching it, and they seem to share teaching tips, I think that getting another essay to do is very probable," Björn told her. "Wanna bet?"

"You need to control that betting of yours," Jakob said. "Seriously, man."

"Gambling is fun," Björn replied cheerfully. "I'm already starting my personal fortune!"

"Well done," Heidi drawled, making the boy scowl at hear.

"With you girls, it's easy enough to look pretty and snag a rich husband," Björn claimed. "But with us guys, it's different."

"That's right," Filippa suddenly said, although she didn’t _sound_ as if she agreed. "When a woman is useless, it's kind of cute in the archaic circles. When a man is useless, he's just shit. Harry, these are…?"

"Double standards," Harry said, sounding like the term alone was a personal insult of some kind. He shook his head and noticed Nikolai standing a bit to the side, staring at nothing in particular. Ever since Filippa had let it slip that Nikolai enjoyed tormenting animals cruelly, Harry hadn't known quite _how_ to act around the other boy, usually pretending to not know a thing. But sometimes, he couldn't help but remember and shudder, feeling unexplainable fear.

He hadn't noticed anyone else acting strangely around Nikolai, and Harry wondered if anyone but he and Filippa even knew. How had she found out anyway?

"You're quiet," Truls said, startling Harry out of his thoughts. "Is something wrong?"

"I was just thinking about something," Harry muttered. "I, er, think it's best to not talk about it where someone might hear."

"We've got Creatures and Divination after Dark Arts," Truls said. "And then we've got the lunch break. Let's go to my place, then."

"Alright," Harry agreed with a smile just as they entered the Dark Arts classroom.

"I wish we'd start duelling already," Filippa sighed, sitting in front of Harry and Truls.

"But didn't you hear?" Heidi asked, sitting next to her. "I heard that Professor Crouch was temporarily transferred to Hogwarts. Rumour has it that he's helping a professor there." Harry's eyes widened, his mouth falling open.

"What?" he exclaimed. " _What_?"

"Didn't _you_ know?" Heidi asked, clearly surprised. "How come I know if _you_ don't? I mean, you're Gilderoy Lockhart's pupil, right?"

" _Wrong_ ," Harry said. "I'm his nothing. He just occasionally barges into my room—"

"Oh, he can barge into _my_ room any time."

"Filippa! _Ew!_ "

"I read it in Hexogue," Heidi said. "He's got an article there… Harry, I don't want to ask weird questions, but is Lockhart, um, interested…?"

"I don't want to hear this!" Harry yelped. "Whom he's having an affair with isn't any of my business!" _'No wonder he hasn't written a word to me yet– he's too busy hitting on Crouch!'_

"Oh my God," Heidi gasped, grabbing Filippa's arm. "Lockhart is having an affair with a _man_! He's _gay_!"

"Maybe he's bisexual?" Filippa suggested.

"Can we change the subject?" Harry asked. "To something actually relevant?" Heidi smiled oddly, looking for a split-second at Truls.

"How about," she started, but the appearance of the Dark Arts professor Ulrich Dietmar saved Harry from hearing what kind of suggestion she had been about to make.

*

Truls's flat was almost identical to Harry's, except that it was slightly tidier and its kitchen was fully stocked.

"My mother keeps sending a house-elf," Truls explained when he saw Harry's surprised expression. "Anyway, we've got two hours till Charms. Want to tell me what has been keeping you down lately?"

"Life in general," Harry replied, sitting down and setting his books on the table in front of him. "How about we work on our Herbology essays while we talk?"

"Alright, I'll just make us some tea. Are you hungry? I can make pancakes or something."

"Tea's enough, thank you. Say, Truls, what do you think of Nikolai?"

"Nikolai?" Truls said, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

"Filippa told me something about him, and I haven't been able to stop worrying, sort of," Harry admitted. "She said he likes… hurting animals. And, well, is that true?"

"I don't know," Truls replied, relaxing. "Wouldn't surprise me, though. Nikolai's got a bit of a reputation."

"What do you mean? Why does everyone else know this but I don't?" Harry asked, scowling. "Who else but you and Filippa know?"

"I didn't know about him torturing animals, but Harry, Nikolai… Well, just look at him during lessons. He enjoys tormenting the animals during Creatures lessons, in Transfiguration, he asked once if a human can be killed by transforming half of him into something else, he soaks up every single thing in Dark Arts, in Herbology it's slow poisons that he's interested in… He sets things on fire, is egocentric, isn't hesitant to use violence…"

"I didn't know any of that before."

"It takes time to notice– it's not like he does all that in a day, or even a month. And the issues are never big enough to really be noticed on their own. And Harry, in all honesty, you're not exactly the most observant guy out there."

"I'm dense?" Harry asked, honestly surprised. Truls smiled fondly and set down two cups of tea and a plateful of cookies on the table before sitting down.

"You're a bit dense," Truls replied. "I think it's because you've got your stories filling your head."

"But I know about Björn's budding gambling problem."

"Everyone knows about that. The guy's going to end up in debts before we graduate, I swear."

"Did Nikolai really do all that? You know… hurt animals and stuff. Why?"

"I don't know. I guess he likes it."

"But it's wrong," Harry said, frowning. "It's… it's like that execution. Wrong. Maybe it's a phase?"

"He's got a soft spot for Heidi," Truls said, reaching for a cookie. "If it's a phase, then she will eventually bring him out of it. Clemens says that Nikolai's got the right mindset for a Death Eater, though. He'd know, I guess– his mum has worked with some high-profile Death Eaters before, and apparently, her tales of those are gory."

"Death Eaters," Harry sighed. "Somehow that doesn't sound as neat as it used to."

"What do you mean?" Truls asked. "Is it because of the execution? Every side has that kind of stuff, you know. The Rebels are no better– at least we target criminals, not civilians."

"I don't know what I mean. I just feel so confused about this whole thing, and Truls, what if I have to kill someone, some day?"

"Then you do it."

"It's so easy for you to _say_ that."

"No," Truls said. "It isn't. And right now, I know that neither you nor I would be able to kill anyone. But that's why we're here and not at any other school, Harry."

"Truls," Harry started hesitantly. "Is it wrong… that I want to do what I think is right?"

"I don't know," Truls replied. "But don't worry– even if it's wrong, I'll still stick by you. You're so oblivious that you need someone taking care of you." The Swedish boy smiled reassuringly. Harry felt his own smile falter and looked down at his barely-started Herbology essay.

"Truls?" he said after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah?"

"Would you… Hand me the ink, please."

"Sure?" Truls said, pushing the bottle of ink closer to Harry, even though it had been within his reach already. Harry offered a forced smile and returned to writing his essay, adding a paragraph on Gillyweed. The two sat silently for several minutes before Harry spoke again.

"Truls?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you… um, find this essay easy?"

"Yeah, it's pretty easy. Why? Do you find it difficult? You can copy from me—"

"Ah, no, no. I think it's easy enough, too. Thank you, though."

"Harry," Truls said, reaching to touch Harry's face and make him look at Truls. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Harry replied nervously, heart skipping a beat. "I just, nothing. Nothing."

"Harry."

"You'll… not like me anymore."

"Impossible for that to happen," Truls stated. "What' s wrong?"

"There's something you don't know about me," Harry said, not believing that after all these months of keeping it a secret, he was actually going to say it. Truls stared at Harry for a few moments, before moving to sit right next to him and holding his both hands, and Harry continued, "And I just think that you need to know before you promise to support me in whatever I do."

"It's alright," Truls said. "You can tell me."

"Truls," Harry started quietly, nervously, knowing that even though to him it wasn't a big issue… if it was to Truls, he could lose a friend. "I'm a half-blood."

*

"You're still thinking of him."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Nagini," Tom hissed back. He was alone in his study, browsing through reports about immigrant vampires and contemplating if some of Durmstrang's seventh year students could survive getting a bit of specialized training.

"You keep on making remarks about him," Nagini pointed out lazily. "He's—"

"Infuriating," Tom snarled. "That's what he is. Have you ever met anyone who's so _Gryffindor_? He thinks people are equal, and he doesn't understand the necessity of executions! He'd probably ban the cruciatus curse if he could!"

"And yet you keep returning to him and you think about him."

"He has the brother wand of mine. I thought that it would matter, but now, I can't help but think _how_? He's so different. I was _never_ like that."

"If you don't like him, why do you keep thinking of him and visiting him?" Nagini hissed, and Tom got the vague impression that if she could roll her eyes at him, she would.

"I don't like anyone," he said. "I just don't understand him. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking of him as someone who… isn't like other people. As if he's… different? Extraordinary? Which is—"

"True."

"— _ridiculous_!" Tom blinked a few times in surprise, before turning to give the huge snake a glare. "What?"

"He smells dead and alive," Nagini told him. "As if he's sometimes dead, but humans can't really do that, can they? Die a few times and then wake up again. Because if other humans could do that, they'd smell like him, I'd say."

"What are you talking about?" Tom asked, now completely intrigued.

"The boy," Nagini clarified. "The boy who's got you so fascinated. This conversation is boring me. I want a sunny spot. I'm sleepy."

"The boy has the brother wand of mine which means that the cores of our magic are similar," Tom muttered, ignoring his pet. "What if there's some other connection? But why? How? How can someone die and return to life— Nagini, are you _sure_? And he did flicker away, vanish, in a place with anti-apparition wards. But he's too young to know how to apparate anyway."

"I'm hungry."

"I should abduct the boy and experiment on him, test his magic and blood and scan his brain, and maybe do the same to his parents."

"I want mice."

"But he wouldn't talk to me after that. Why is he so complicated?"

"Or rats. Fat rats."

"What if he has discovered some other way to become immortal?" Tom paused, frowning. "No, he's too morally correct to do that. He's so much like… Dumbledore…" Nagini looked up at the mention of the name she knew her Master hated.

"Dumbledore," Tom repeated. "Yes, the boy reminds me of Dumbledore a bit… doesn't he, my pet?

"No," Nagini replied. "I don't remember that human. I remember the name, but not the human."

"So if we could understand certain things about Dumbledore, perhaps I could understand Potter's tiny little immature, idiot brain somehow?"

"Why is understanding him so important? If he's a bother, just get rid of him."

"I think we have to visit a certain someone," Tom decided, reaching for his hooded cape. "Come on, Nagini."

"Where we'll be going?"

"To Nurmengard."

*

"The term my mum likes to use is first generation pureblood, but I know it's not accurate," Harry said. "I, er, think that you should know. Just, please, don't tell the others yet. I want to tell them on my own, eventually." Truls stared quietly at Harry for a few moments, during which Harry felt almost nauseous due to how nervous he was. Finally, Truls nodded, and smiled.

"You're still a Potter, though," he said. "And I— you're my friend. Besides, being a half-blood isn't too frowned at, you know. Actually, there've been claims that the Dark Lord himself is one."

"So you don't mind?"

"I don't mind."

"I'm glad," Harry breathed, closing his eyes. "I was scared. Thought that you might, I don't know, treat me differently."

"I won't," Truls promised. "And I'm sure that neither Filippa nor Lorenzo would, either. Or Björn– he doesn't care about blood purity, all he cares about is money. Heidi… wouldn't hate you, but would probably treat you like a child or something. You know, be really protective and think that you're somehow helpless. Nikolai… it's hard to tell, with him. The two who, I'm pretty sure, would feel freaked out are Clemens and Petronella. They both come from families that have really strong ties to Death Eaters for the past generations, and Clemens's parents used to attend the Muggle Hunt parties."

"I'll keep it a secret," Harry decided. "I just… didn't want to… you… well…"

"Thank you," Truls said quietly, and he was _so close_ , closer than before. Harry could feel Truls's breath and could count his eyelashes– that's how close they were. "It makes me happy to know that you trust me."

"Thank you," Harry insisted. "For being… for not, you know…"

"Do you mind me asking… your mother is…?"

"She's a muggle born witch."

"Do you have any muggle things at home? Muggle traditions and the like?" Truls asked.

"No," Harry replied. "Mum is… very strict at keeping all things Muggle away. Dad thinks she's trying to, I don't know, compensate for something. I think it's stupid. Blood purity doesn't affect power and intelligence, so why all the prejudice? What is it based on?"

"Maybe you could ask your mother?"

"I've tried, but she always either changes the subject or scolds me for asking."

"Does she have any family in the Muggle world?" Truls asked. "Maybe if she does and never contacts them, it could be that she's trying to distance herself from anything that reminds her of them. That could be, if they never got along or had a really bad falling-out or something."

"I don't know if she has any Muggle relatives," Harry replied. "What if _I_ have a bunch of Muggle cousins and never knew?"

"Are you going to find out?"

"How? Mum is definitely not going to tell me."

"All we need is a name," Truls said, suddenly grinning. "Then, come summer, the two of us will go on an adventure to find your relatives. Wouldn't that be like in one of your stories."

"Oh, my God," Harry laughed. "Imagine us walking amongst Muggles!"

"Can't be that hard to deal with, right?"

"We don't know anything about Muggles, aside from that they don't have magic."

"We'll find out. Research."

"Would your parents let you just… do that?" Harry asked, not believing that he was starting to actually think about this. "My parents… I wouldn't be so sure."

"The school year has just started," Truls replied. "We'll figure out something. Anything."


	8. Chapter 8

There were very few places in the world that Tom liked. One of them was Nurmengard.

The towering prison, the grim fortress, the place that, to Tom, signified irony at its finest– hadn't Grindelwald built it and been so proud of it, only to end up a prisoner there himself? Some people had foolishly thought that Lord Voldemort would let out the old man after he took control, but no. The world was too small for two Dark Lords. If Grindelwald wasn't so useful in terms of knowledge, Tom would have killed him decades ago.

Azkaban held his enemies. Nurmengard held the competition.

In all honesty, Tom liked death sentences far more than life sentences– leaving someone troublesome alive was potentially dangerous and could later on in life come and bother him. It was simply _unfinished business_. Unfortunately, though, it was sometimes necessary to leave an enemy alive, either to experiment on or to use them for their knowledge. And that's why he had such fine prisons in the first place.

"It's cold," Nagini said. " _Why_ is it so cold? _Do something_ ; I don't like being cold."

"Be quiet or I'll transfigure you into a cat," Tom replied. "Then you'll have a fur to keep you warm."

"What's a cat again? I know mice because I eat them. Can I eat a cat? I can, right? I can eat anything I want."

Tom didn't bother replying as he had just arrived in front of the cell that held within it his favourite prisoner. Gellert Grindelwald, the man who had _almost_ achieved what Tom had, was nothing but a frail skeletal figure with a skull-like face and sunken eyes.

"Gellert," Tom said, smiling politely, "glad to see you in… good health. Alive."

"Riddle," Grindelwald replied with practiced neutrality. "Who do I have to, ah,  _thank_ , for making you seek me out again? What is it that you need this time?"

"What have I ever  _needed_  from you?"

"Spells? Lessons in history? Or just someone who talks back to you? I know better than anyone how dull it becomes to be surrounded by groveling, sniveling psychophants all the time."

"I have found someone else who talks back to me, _not that I like it_ , actually," Tom said. "Say, did you understand Dumbledore?"

"What?" Grindelwald hadn't expected that question– in fact, he hadn't expected to hear Albus Dumbledore's name ever again. What was Riddle playing at? What did he have to gain? The current Dark Lord didn't usually get directly to the point like this.

"His _views_ ," Tom clarified, annoyed at not being understood immediately. "Did you understand his views of wrong and right?"

"It has been  _years_. I hardly even remember him," Grindelwald claimed, but Tom sneered at the obvious lie.

"He loved you. Doesn't that count for something?"

"What… is this about, really?"

" _Crucio._ " Ah, nothing worked as a better stress relief than causing someone else a bit of pain. Tom didn't like not understanding something, and what he hated even more was having to rephrase his questions just for the less intelligent people to be able to catch up. After lifting the curse, Tom stared at the shaking old man for a few minutes, before sighing. "I ask the questions. Not you. You just answer. Did you understand what made Dumbledore care for what is right and what is wrong?"

"No," Grindelwald croaked. "He just wanted to do the right thing."

"Like when he defeated you, the love of his life, for the  _greater good_. Doesn't remembering that make you feel betrayed? And I'm not just talking about him using your own catchphrases against you."

"I never loved him. I cared for him, but I didn't love him. Not that you'd understand the difference."

"I don't believe you, but that's irrelevant anyway," Tom said dismissively. "What I want to understand is why someone would think that people are meant to be equal. It's not true– look at the world. You're there and I'm here, and yet, you once stood where I used to stand. Isn't that a proof of that people aren't  _meant_ to be equal? Only some achieve greatness and manage to keep it while others achieve greatness and then lose it all. Because unlike me,  _they_  weren't meant to lead the world."

"People define greatness in different ways," Grindelwald said, remembering a pair of bright blue eyes and wisdom that went beyond age. "You're what, seventy now? How come you're so  _void_ of wisdom?"

"Age and the passage of time are meaningless to me," Tom reminded the older man. "I am immortal."

"A fool, that's what you are."

"I'm the Dark Lord!"

"So? I was too, once."

"Yes, and we all know how  _that_  went."

"Why do you boys insist on acting like two hatchlings comparing their length," Nagini hissed. "Get to the point and then out of here. I'm cold."

"Bossy, that's what you are," Tom hissed in response before refocusing on Grindelwald again. "If you cannot be of any use to me regarding this—"

"You said earlier that you have already found someone who talks with you," Grindelwald cut in. "And now all these questions… Don't tell me… Could it be that the person you have found, is more like Albus than—"

" _Crucio._  This is getting old."

"You need a new favourite curse," Naginig agreed sleepily. "Not the green one, though. It's not fun when they die so quickly and don't even struggle."

"I was talking about having to curse this bastard at least five times every time I visit," Tom hissed, before lifting the curse and staring at the old man with a disgusted expression. To think, Grindelwald used to be such a powerful wizard…

"He's rather persistent, isn't he?" Nagini hissed.

"There's no rage in my curses today which is why they're not as strong as usual,” Tom replied to her. “I _need_ my answers."

"So get them quickly and let's leave. I'm still hungry. Are you going to ask him how someone can be sometimes dead and then wake up?"

"I'll research that before asking anyone."

"Can we get some mice?" Nagini asked again, but her Master ignored her in favour of returning to his questioning.

"If I agreed with you," Tom told Grindelwald, leaning closer towards the bars separating them, "what would you say? What would your answer be?"

"If he is like Albus at all, then I know why you can't understand him," the former Dark Lord rasped, "why you will never understand him."

"And the reason is?"

"He has a heart. And you do not."

*

 

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _It has been a while since my last letter, and I'm sorry about that. I have been very busy with work– there have been so many people injured, and most of us Healers are getting retrained to treat injuries that don't have anything to do with our field of expertise. I'm working overtime. It's terrible, and sometimes, I feel that no matter how many I heal, there are still more left._
> 
> _I heard Healer Merrick– he's from my department– saying that soon some of us will be sent to the battle fronts to give assistance there. Even if I get picked, my son, do not worry. Mommy knows how to take care of herself._
> 
> _How are you? I trust that you have been eating and sleeping and studying well? Are there any parent-teacher meetings I should know about? Do you need anything from home? Everyone at home is well. I talked a few times with Mr. Lupin, and he seems to be a decent fellow, regardless of his condition. James says that he has adapted well to life amongst wizards, and I quizzed him about some of the books I gave him– Wizarding traditions and such._
> 
> _James admitted that if Mr. Lupin keeps up with his progress, he will be able to live alone and get a job by the time your summer break starts. Isn't that lovely? I can't imagine what kind of job he'd get, though._
> 
> _I spoke with Mrs. Malfoy as well– Bellatrix Lestrange asked about you. How does she even know you? Have the two of you talked? Harry, Mrs. Lestrange is a dangerous, dangerous woman. If she ever approaches you, flee, my son. I admit to being very concerned over this. What would Mrs. Lestrange want from you?_
> 
> _Mrs. Malfoy said that her sister merely asked how you were doing and whether or not you're as… lovely as she remembers. When did you meet her? I need to know, Harry, even if Mrs. Malfoy assured me that the interest was nothing alarming._
> 
> _Christmas holiday is still months away, but I miss you so._
> 
> _I love you.  
>  Mum_
> 
> _PS. I also sent you some books. The ones you asked for. Dark is Rising sequence by Susan Cooper. I hope I remembered correctly. Have fun reading, but don't neglect your homework!_

Harry set down the letter and stared at it for several long minutes. It was Friday morning and Harry was supposed to get dressed and hurry to the Transfiguration classroom, but the letter he had just received made him forget all about school and worry about Bellatrix instead. She still remembered him. _Why_ did she still remember him? Maybe Tom had mentioned his name? Somehow, the thought of Tom and Bellatrix being good friends was troubling and made him feel uncomfortable.

And once again, like a wound that had already healed but was now ripped open again, Harry remembered Haines Potter and the Gone Tribe. If Bellatrix was to approach him again— Would he really—? What should he tell his mother anyway? Maybe he should ask Tom? Ah, _no_ , he had already decided to not meet Tom again till he found out more about the man. Maybe he could go after classes to the library to see if there were any books on active Death Ea—

Hold on.

Classes?

"Shit!" Harry exclaimed aloud, rushing to pull on his uniform and deciding to skip breakfast. He had two minutes’ time to reach the classroom, and Harry could only guess what Professor Kay would do to him if he was late. Had Truls knocked? No, Harry was sure that his best friend hadn't tried to drop by. Which was odd. Generally, Truls had been behaving a bit strangely lately, sometimes even avoiding Harry and scowling whenever someone smirked at him.

 _'Maybe I could ask Ron if that kind of behaviour is normal,'_ Harry thought, running towards the classroom as fast as he could. When he reached the room, he was surprised to see his classmates in their seats already, and yet. the teacher wasn't present.

"What' s going on?" Harry asked, sitting next to Truls.

"Jakob fainted," the Swedish boy replied, and only now did Harry notice that, indeed, the German boy wasn't in the classroom. "Nobody knows why. I don't think he was hexed or anything."

"Maybe he's just stressed?" Heidi suggested. "Few badly slept nights, skipping meals, and trying to keep up with long hours of studying and tough sports lessons? That's begging for a dizzy spell, let me just say."

"Did Professor Kay check who're present before he left?" Harry asked quietly, and Truls shook his head.

"No. He was about to, but then Jakob fell off his chair. What were you doing to be this late?"

"You didn't drop by this morning."

"You wanted me to?" Truls asked and looked down at his hands. Harry frowned, not understanding the reason for the question.

"Of course. Why do you suddenly think else?"

"I just… wondered if, maybe, I've been bothering you."

"Nonsense," Harry replied, pulling out his homework. "Did you finish all the essays we should be working on?"

"I've still got Charms homework, but it's for tomorrow so I'll do it today after school. You've done it already?" Harry nodded and was about to give a verbal response when the classroom's door opened, and Professor Kay sauntered in to start the lesson.

 _'I wonder what's wrong with Jakob,'_ Harry thought.  _'I don't really know him, though. Should I visit him in the hospital wing? I think he hangs out with Lorenzo and Filippa usually.'_ Zoning out while his teacher talked, Harry's thoughts returned to his mother's letter. She had ventured to a Muggle bookstore to get his books. What had made her change her mind? Was she still concerned about the execution's after-effects? Harry didn't feel shocked anymore– not really. He definitely didn't accept it but he wasn't going to let it bring him down.

When Bellatrix had been his age, had she been like him at all? Somehow Harry doubted that, thinking that she had most likely been similar to Nikolai. What had Bellatrix thought of the first execution she had witnessed? What about Tom?

 _'Then again, I don't really know her either. I have met her only once and the rest of what I know is based on rumours,'_ Harry thought.  _'I need to forget about Death Eaters and the war and focus on my studies instead. Maybe I'll go fly today after the classes are over. I don't have a broom with me, but I think Clemens once said that the school lends brooms to students.'_

Yeah, maybe he really should go flying and forget all about the rest of the world. Especially if Truls was going to be busy writing an essay. Harry was going to fly, close his eyes and enjoy the speed as he sailed through empty skies.

He couldn't wait.

*

"You're brilliant!" Marlen Redoslav crowed, a huge grin almost splitting his face in half. Viktor Krum smiled awkwardly and shrugged, holding a snitch in one hand and a broom in another.

"It was nothing," Viktor said, his English slightly more accented than that of his friend.

"To you, it probably is," Redoslav nodded, before grinning at a few girls nearby. "You're _so_ going to get scouted, man. Next year, as soon as you turn fifteen. I know it. No team would pass up having a seeker like you!" Viktor forced another smile, trying not to cower under the attention he was getting.

Viktor was a tall, thin, sallow young man with dark hair and eyes. He had a large, curved nose that he inherited from his father and a sharp profile. He wasn't graceful– actually, Redoslav had once commented on how weird it was that despite appearing graceful while flying on a broomstick, he was round-shouldered and duck-footed while on the ground.

Viktor also knew he wasn't particularly good looking. He liked flying, loved it, even. But he honestly couldn't understand why would someone else care about how quick he was to catch a snitch outside a game, and why it would make him more popular amongst his peers.

"Oh boy," Redoslav sighed, still looking at the group of girls nearby. "If Mette Erling would smile at me like she smiles at you, I'd be a happy man."

"Who?" Viktor asked, and followed his friend's gaze to see a tall girl with sparkling blue eyes and long golden hair. She seemed to be bored more than anything else, and while she was very pretty indeed, Viktor didn't feel that being the receiving end of her smile would make him feel anything.

"Maybe I could escort her inside," Redoslav said, and Viktor shrugged.

"Go ahead. I'll fly for a little bit longer."

"Alright, man! See you later!"

Viktor pushed the snitch into one of his pockets before turning to fly to the opposite direction. He didn't fancy talking with anyone right then– there was something strangely exhausting in socializing with people. He'd rather practice the Plumpton Pass– it was a move considerably harder to make than one would initially think. Viktor felt, however, that if he wasn't capable of pulling that move off perfectly, he wouldn't be good enough to play Quidditch for a living.

He let go of the snitch, waited for a few moments for it to speed away, before he flew after it.

Flying like this, he could forget all about the political complications that seem to be muscling their way into the lives of everyone– even the people who honestly wanted nothing to do with Englishmen and their silly notions of grandeur. Although Viktor wasn't going to say that aloud to anyone– that would be a social suicide if not an actual one. It would cost him his place in the team and his friends, and he most likely would suddenly find himself facing too many enemies to count.

His own classmate Anthony Lestrange would definitely start causing him grief, and the infamous Cassius Meliflua from 6th year would most probably try to kill him either by challenging him to a public duel or by some sneaky, underhanded tactic. Then again, Viktor supposed that criticizing the Dark Lord might very well result to expulsion. It wouldn't surprise him.

Seeing the snitch vanishing behind the broom storage building, Viktor hurried after it, not even considering the possibility of anyone being there.

He had barely rounded the corner when he felt a body knocking against his own, brooms colliding, and only his strong hold on the broom kept him from falling. Whoever he had collided with, however, wasn't so lucky, and with varying degrees of panic, Viktor realized that the body that was falling towards the ground wasn't a hallucination. Panicked thoughts of _'Oh no'_  and  _'Thank God we weren't flying high'_  short rapidly through his mind as he flew after the person he had collided with.

It was a boy, maybe a second year? Very thin and rather small, with skin so pale that Viktor had to wonder if he was a human at all. His hair, pitch black, was rather messy, and he was wearing casual clothes. His eyes were clenched shut.

"A-are you in pain?" Viktor asked, feeling stupid and guilty while kneeling next to the boy. Of course the boy would be in pain, for heaven's sake. "I'll take you to the hospital wing. I'm _very_   _sorry._ "

He didn't know if the boy was even conscious– what if his unnatural paleness was due to some damage caused by the fall? What if the boy had broken a bone or received some kind of internal injury? Nervously, Viktor used a levitation spell, before hurrying towards the hospital wing.

*

Harry heard the sound of trains before he felt the cold and smelt the scent he had come to associate with this place.

"You have grown," Albus said as soon as Harry opened his eyes and sat up, seeing the old man standing a few feet away. "I suppose more time has passed than I thought."

"Albus," Harry breathed, feeling strangely relieved to see the old man again, "I fell off my broom. That must have knocked me out. Albus... so much has  _happened._ "

"No summoning unknown beings, I hope?"

"No, no. I have, er, decided to not use that option for now. But there's so much _else_ , and I don't know what to think and I feel like I don't really know anyone anymore and my family took in a werewolf and he's nice, but I don't know, my parents don't think so – well, I mean they think he’s nice, but not person kind of nice, more like pet kind of nice. And I saw an execution and I want to know who Tom really is and—"

"How about you start from the beginning?" Albus suggested with a smile. "I'm afraid I did not understand much of what you just said."

"My main concern is about this Death Eater," Harry started, after taking a few deep breaths. "I don't even know his name. I just call him Tom."

"Do you feel threatened by him?"

"No! No. I just... I mean, I know that he's a high-ranked Death Eater. But he's nice. He visits me sometimes– well okay, not really, we just find each other or something. But my point is that he's nice to talk with even if he doesn't seem to understand some very simple things."

"Such as?"

"He doesn't think that people were born to have equal rights. He, well, I saw an execution not too long ago and he doesn't understand why I didn't find it entertaining at all. In fact, I found it  _terrible_ , but he just doesn't  _understand_ that. It's like there's a bit in his brain that's missing– the part that can process certain kind of feelings. He talks about this current world like it's an ideal place, but ideal for who? Only specific kind of people can be free and happy and—"

"What will you do about it?" Albus cut in, an odd spark in his eyes. "You complain a lot about the world, Harry, but you do nothing."

"I can't change the _world_!" Harry exclaimed, bewildered and defensive. "Besides, I'm only twelve!"

"But you can change the people," Albus told him gently. "And for that you needn't be any older or younger. Talk to your friends, even this Death Eater friend of yours. If he doesn't understand, then teach him. But for that, Harry,  _you_  need to change as well."

"Change how? And… and I don't want to have anything to do with politics."

"Not politics, Harry.  _People_. Like I said, my boy, just because you can't change the world, doesn't mean that you can't change people. And eventually, with enough people, a change will occur. Hopefully for the better."

"I  _can't_ — I mean, I'm just Harry, you know," Harry said, the idea of actually  _doing_ something instead of holding his arguments back appearing completely befuddling.

"You biggest obstacle isn't other people, but your own hesitation," Albus said carefully. "That's one thing you must overcome. If you're not sure of your own beliefs, then how can you convince anyone else?"

"But I—"

"There's something wrong with the world, Harry. If you want it to be fixed, you have to fix it yourself."

"If I was to gather people," Harry started, rubbing his forehead. "I… what if… I don't want to start a  _war_ , Albus!"

"Why in the world did the idea of starting a war even occur to you?" Albus asked, surprised. "You cannot prepare for peace while preparing for war at the same time, Harry. There are no solutions in wars. Organized slaughter does not settle a dispute; it merely silences an argument."

"I know that," Harry said. "I  _know_ that.”

"Know what you're fighting for, and what you're fighting against," Albus advised. "Even if you cannot talk to the people as a whole, talk to the few individuals that matter to you. That would be a start."

Harry stared mutely at the old man, feeling slightly overwhelmed. There had been so much else he had wanted to talk about, and yet, he couldn't remember a single thing. Why were they even talking about this? Change the world? Harry wasn't delusional. He couldn't even convince his mother that Muggleborns were just as cool as Pure-bloods– and she was one herself!

"I need to think," Harry said. "I need to… to… I don't know. I need to—"

"Run away?"

"No," Harry snapped, scowling. "Why are you… being so… I don't know. Bossy?"

"Harry," Albus sighed tiredly. "Have you not noticed that I haven't been able to move from where I am standing during this meeting at all?"

"I… er…" No, he _hadn't_ noticed, but now that the old man had mentioned it…

"Do you want to guess why?" Albus's voice was so gentle and tired and pitying when he continued when Harry nodded. "Right now this station is so crowded that there isn't enough space for me to walk to where you are. In fact, I can hardly see you– there are so many people between you and I."

"What do you mean?" Harry gasped, leaning back and feeling suddenly slightly scared. He saw no one but Albus there, and the thought of being surrounded by invisible dead people was chilling, to say the least.

"The numbers of those getting killed in the Wizarding World has risen," Albus said. "If this continues, who will be left?"

*

Harry woke up in the hospital wing, Albus's words still fresh in his mind. It took him a few moments to notice that he was staring into a pair of concerned, dark eyes. Memories of him going to fly– only to end up crashing into someone and falling down– made him cringe and wonder if he could somehow prevent his mother from finding out what had happened. He could succeed in that if the damage wasn't too bad. Or maybe he should let her know to distract her from asking about Bellatrix?

Why was Harry's life so darn complicated anyway?

"Are you okay?" the vaguely familiar boy asked. "I'm sorry about—"

"It's probably my fault," Harry assured him. "I think I'm okay. Where's the nurse?" And what was her name again?

"I do not know where Madame Siegbert is," the boy said with a shrug, before offering Harry a tight-lipped, forced smile. "I'm Viktor, by the way. Viktor Krum. A fourth year student."

"I'm Harry Potter. Second year student."

"I wish you a swift recovery, Harry Potter, " Viktor said awkwardly, standing up. "I am sorry for causing you this pain."

"It's alright," Harry replied, watching the older boy leave. Barely a second after the hospital wing's door had swung shut, a rustling sound from the bed next to him caught Harry's attention. Jakob was looking at him with a tired smile and a slightly surprised expression.

"You're still here," Jakob said. "How're you feeling?"

"I've got a bit of a headache, but that's all," Harry told him. "And you?"

"Dizzy," Jakob admitted, closing his eyes and resting again against the pillows. "Weak. I keep dozing off, no matter how much I try to stay awake. The nurse says something's wrong with me. She's calling my parents right now to get my medical records sent to her in case there's something of relevance there."

"Oh," said Harry. He didn't know what else to say– was he supposed to comfort Jakob, and if so, then how? Luckily, he was saved from the situation by the arrival of his classmates.

"Harry," Truls breathed, rushing next to him, "are you okay? I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier, but—"

"Chill, Truls," Filippa cut in, rolling her eyes. "Hi Jakob, hi Harry. I'm not even going to ask how the two of you are feeling. Are you hungry, though?"

"Viktor Krum visited Harry," Jakob said suddenly. "The local Quidditch star—"

"Man, you spoke with  _Viktor Krum_?" Clemens exclaimed, eyes wide. "Everyone says that he's going professional as soon as he turns fifteen! Did you get an autograph? Man, I'm so jealous!"

"I'm not," Björn said. "I won't get jealous since my beloved Mette Erling wasn't the one to visit Harry."

"Mette Erling?" Harry repeated. "Who's that?"

"That's  _Miss_  Mette Erling to you, my friend."

"One of Krum's fangirls," Petronella said patiently. "Björn's got a crush on her."

"She's perfect," Björn sighed dreamily. "She's so beautiful, isn't she, Truls?"

"Are you seriously asking  _Truls?_ " Filippa asked with an odd tone. Björn, Jakob, Clemens and Petronella seemed to smother their giggles while Truls scowled. Harry frowned, confused.

"Why wouldn't he ask Truls?" Harry wanted to know.

"Oh,  _Harry_ ," Filippa sighed, while Petronella patted his arm. Truls flushed, glaring at the Italian girl.

"Are you going to make a move on Erling, Björn?" Jakob asked curiously. "She doesn't look like she's easily impressed."

"I'm going to confess my feelings to her in a way that is going to make a  _lasting_  impression, I assure you."

"Write her a poem," Filippa suggested suddenly. "It'd be such a sweet, romantic gesture!"

"Björn writing poetry," Truls said incredulously, his hand finding Harry's hand under the blanket. "Yeah right."

"I can be very poetic when I want to," Björn claimed. "I could say… Dear Mette, my day went from shit to sunshine the moment I saw you smile. Your laugh made my ill mood vanish like a gust of wind that takes away the scent of that shit."

"I think that's good," Clemens said approvingly. "Really metaphorical. Girls like that, right?"

" _No,_ " Filippa snarled. "Try again!"

"Dear Mette, you hit my heart like the Unforgivables. You make my heart twitch like a Cruciatus, you make me wish to obey you like an Imperius, and you take my breath away like an Avada Kedavra."

"I never realized, before this, how much love and the Unforgivables resemble each other," Jakob sniggered. "But she _does_ have a nice smile, that Mette of yours."

"Yeah, but women don't always smile," Clemens said.

"They do to me," Björn replied with calm confidence. "Some even point and laugh."

"I think you're misunderstanding something," Filippa muttered, shaking her head.

"Anyway, I think you should give up on poetry for now, Björn," Petronella said, giggling. "Harry, did the nurse say when you can leave?"

"I haven't seen her yet," Harry admitted. "But that's okay. I'm sure I won't have to stay here overnight."

"Lucky bastard," Jakob sighed. "I'll definitely have to stay here overnight. I just know it."

 _'If staying overnight in the hospital wing is your worst problem,'_ Harry thought bitterly, _'then you're the lucky bastard here.'_

There was just so much going on, and if Harry was to follow Albus's advice, then… his life would get even more complicated. Would he want that? Was he ready to go out of his way and challenge the Dark Lord's policy and rules? No, definitely not. Besides, he didn't even know from where to  _start_. If he even wanted to start. Which he definitely didn't, because doing as Albus had advised him to do would be pure madness, without a doubt.

_It could cause so much grief._

_It could bring harm upon him and his family._

_His friends would abandon him. Even Truls, probably._

He had thousands of reasons more for staying where he was, challenging no one, accepting the world for what it was.

Somehow, they all sounded more like excuses.

Harry felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and his heart was telling him to jump, while his mind was telling him to turn back.

*

Harry found a… well, not a solution, exactly, but a way to avoid thinking of his issues. He reread all of the books he had brought with him from home, and it was so _easy_ to forget the world when he was focused on what was happening to Gulliver or wishing that his adventures were more like those of the Peverell brothers. How neat was making deals with Death anyway? Super neat!

Between schoolwork and stories Harry really didn't give himself the time to think about anything even slightly rebellious.

Till the fourth of November, anyway.

When he woke up on that day, everything seemed innocent and normal. It was a pleasant Sunday morning and Harry had planned already to go to the Library to borrow a few interesting books for him to read. And that's what he did– he went to the library, returned the few books he had borrowed before, and then went to look for more.

Except that the usual shelves held nothing of interest– he had read most of the books in that section already, anyway, and Durmstrang unfortunately was  _severely_  lacking when it came to story-books– thus forcing him to go look elsewhere for entertainment.

It looked like a corridor like any other. And it was, maybe. Harry should have known that the amount of dust there was a clear sign of it being a not-so-popular place and that maybe there was a reason why people didn't go there. At the end of the corridor there was a door.

From where Harry got the idea that perhaps the door would lead him to something interesting, even he didn't know. The rusty lock of the door broke alarmingly easily when Harry twisted the doorknob with some force and he finally got to enter the room inside.

 _'Well, isn't this a cosy place,'_ Harry thought.  _'If I didn't have my flat for myself already I'd readily make this my hideout.'_

It was tiny, really. One table, one chair and a rather small bookshelf that couldn't possibly be holding more than a dozen books. Dust covered every corner of the room, but Harry didn't care about that. Curiously, he stepped closer to the bookshelf to read the titles. Perhaps he'd find an old fairytale book that he hadn't read yet?

The curious smile fell off Harry's face as soon as he read the first three books' titles. A feeling of fear crept over him and suddenly Harry got the feeling that was he not to turn and look at the empty doorway, he wouldn't see it empty anymore. So he kept his gaze fixed on the book titles, hoping for this unpleasant feeling to pass.

 _Defining Humanity: Men Made of Magic by Magnus Nettle_  
Wizards and Wars: A Minister’s Road to Darkness by J. M. Dolohov  
Protecting Your Mind – Secrets of Occlumency by Anya Numous  
To Lead, to teach, to achieve by Galahad Wood

Harry felt very, very troubled. Actually, as he read on, he felt increasingly  _sick_. What were books like this doing in Durmstrang? The amount of dust implied that the books were old, but that couldn't be the case– the books didn't  _look_ old.

Harry's expression was changing from a sceptical, disbelieving frown into something else as he read the titles of other books on the shelves.  _Time For A Change_ was yet another book on leadership.  _The Black Book of Persuasion Skills_  did seem like something a Durmstrang student would love to read, but who would throw in a book like _that_ with books like _this_? And, and, and something just was  _wrong_ about this whole thing. Something was very wrong. Harry reluctantly, as if out of his own control, moved to read the next book's title.

_Beyond War– the human potential for peace by Douglas P. Fry_

This couldn't be a coincidence.

_This couldn't possibly be a coincidence._

He couldn't… it didn't make any sense. Why were books like this… Why did he find this kind of books? Why? It was as if he was being mocked by someone unknown, someone who knew his dilemmas and enjoyed seeing him torn between voice of reason and obligation of morals. Harry couldn't breathe, his heart was beating with absurd speed against his ribcage and right then,  _it_  happened again.

_\--that strange, sliding sensation that had happened during the execution. Cold swept into his body and the scent of rain and smoke washed over him in waves. He couldn't see the room anymore– instead he could see people. They were everywhere, crowding around him, running, yelling, and there was again the familiar sound of trains—_

It lasted longer than an instant, this time. No longer than a few seconds, though, but to Harry they might as well have been hours. He stood shaking, back in the room, gulping air as if he had been drowning. He cast a frightened glance at the books before running out of the room, deciding to never enter the place again. It wasn't…  _something_  wasn't right. Something in his life was going very, very wrong and he didn't know what exactly the source of this problem was or how to fix it.

 _'I can't even die to escape this misery,'_ Harry thought.  _'Somehow I feel as if… as if even if I died, it wouldn't be the end of this.'_

How he wished to return back to the days that were void of all these complications. Worst of all– he didn't know who was to blame for this, or who could fix it.

But for now, he was going to forget all about this room and the books and the train station. If he could.

*

_"You're sulking. Stop it. It's annoying me."_

"I am not  _sulking_. I'm simply displeased."

_"You've been skipping breakfast for weeks. You do that only when you're sulking. Even worse– you've been forgetting to feed **me**!"_

"It's not possible for me to forget to feed you, Nagini. You whine too much when you're hungry."

_"Why are you sulking?"_

"Why do you care?"

_"If it affects my feeding schedule, I have to care."_

"I am not sulking," Tom repeated, signing a document approving of some basic plans someone had drawn about a long-forgotten tournament of sorts. "As I told you– I am displeased."

_"It's because of that dead-alive boy, isn't it?"_

"I do not know whom you're talking about."

 _"Really?"_ Nagini hissed mockingly _._ "The human who—"

"Look," Tom snapped. "Just because Potter hasn't appeared in the garden for the past few weeks doesn't mean that he's avoiding me. And even if he was, I do not care. He's just one little wizard who's absolutely insignificant whereas I am _the Dark Lord._ I rule the  _world_. Almost. I have everything already. I don't need the company of one little…child.  _"_

" _But of course._ "

"I didn't even experiment on him! Why would he stop talking to me? I don't understand! He isn't my enemy and he isn't afraid of me, so what in the world—  _Why_ is he so complicated? He's like a… a little woman!"

" _I'm sure he'd be flattered to know of the comparison you just made,_ " Nagini hissed. " _You… what do you humans call it? Ah. Chauvinistic pig._ "

"I’m not even going to ask where you heard those words, and I'm going to ignore you," Tom said icily, when he suddenly drew in a sharp breath and narrowed his eyes at his pet. He had a contemplative expression for a few long moments before starting to speak. "You annoyed me, so I decided to ignore you. Could it be that  _I_ annoyedhim and _he_ decided to ignore me? But what did I _do_? Should I curse him? I'm yet to encounter a problem I couldn't solve with a curse of some kind."

" _I do not see any solutions here._ "

"Our last conversation was about the execution. He cannot possibly be still angry about that. Is he angry because I invited him? How was I to know that he'd take it so… like  _that_. Was it my disagreement with his naïve, foolish belief regarding equal rights for all humans? I stand by what I said back then. I was right, he was wrong, end of story. Nagini, I can't find a single thing that would make him annoyed at me and lead to making him behave like this."

_"You're acting like a hatchling in an adult's body."_

"I need to kill someone or I'll be very upset soon."

" _You could confront your dead-alive boy,"_ Nagini suggested suddenly. " _You could ask him."_

"Of course not," Tom replied dismissively. "He'd think that I care."

" _Why do you want to still talk with him, then, if you do not care?"_

"I told you. He fascinates me. Do I really have to list all the reasons why I'm curious about him?" Tom sighed, and put down the green quill he had been holding all this time in a tight grip. "If I could ask him without him knowing it's me… or if I could just use Legilimency on him…"

" _Pity he doesn't speak our language,_ " Nagini noted carelessly. " _Otherwise, I would have gone to ask him and spared you all this trouble and confusion…"_  Tom turned to her abruptly, red eyes almost glowing with sudden delight.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I just need to figure out a way around the language barrier and—"

" _No._ "

"—will send you to him!"

" _This isn't going to end up well,_ " Nagini hissed quietly, while her master rushed to find several books that could be useful. " _You're rarely this rash, my human. Think about this. Reconsider. You don't want to send me flying with an owl all the way to where your human is. I hate heights, and it'll be cold. Too cold. And I'll get so hungry that I might thoughtlessly eat the owl and then I'd fall down to my own death. Because of you. Quit acting like a… a… what was that word again? Gruff-in-door? Gruffed-door? Gryffin… Griffin… Gryffindor?"_

Secretly, she didn't mind, though. Her master was acting in entertaining ways – like an actual _human_ – when it concerned that dead-alive-boy, keeping her boredom at bay. Not that Nagini particularly _approved_ of human behaviour, but her Tom _was._ a human– arguably– and dead-alive boy had seemed like a person who wouldn't forget to feed her.

Maybe he'd even feed her rabbits; Nagini was getting sick of rats. If having Tom act more like a typical human would result in dead-alive boy being included in Nagini's life– which in turn would mean more food– she was going to root for i t.

A snake's gotta eat, after all.

That didn't mean, though, that she was going to allow herself to be sent flying to where the dead-alive boy was. Nagini hissed with displeasure when her Master returned.

"Why are you sulking? You told me last year that you wanted some plans for Christmas. This is it, isn’t it?"

*

Clearly, Harry's life didn't have enough problems, no. Now Truls was acting oddly. Not that he hadn't been acting slightly weird lately anyway, but it had reached a very strange point that seemed to somehow result in Harry ending up with either Truls's hand holding his own, or Truls touching his hair, or shoulder, or they were sitting a bit closer than before… not to mention that he had started greeting Harry with friendly hugs and often kept his arm thrown over Harry's shoulders.

Few days before the Christmas break was to start, Harry decided to… seek help.

Confused and on the verge of developing a permanent headache, he explained his situation to Filippa.

"Sometimes, I wonder if there's something wrong with you," the girl said mildly, making Harry gape. He was in her apartment, sitting on a chair while she was seemingly busy designing new outfits. Heidi was reading a book on the sofa, but Harry suspected that she was paying far more attention to what he was saying than to what she was supposedly reading– the girl hadn't turned the page for the past ten minutes, at least!

"Wrong with _me_?" Harry said. "I— what? Why me? It's not  _me_  who's acting strangely here!"

"How do you feel about Truls?" Filippa asked. "Deep inside your heart, how do you  _feel_?"

"He's my best friend," Harry replied, starting to become even more confused than before. "What  _should_ I be feeling towards him?"

"Let's put it this way," Filippa started. "If I told you that Truls feels… urges towards you. That he… wants to give you a whole new experience and show you, er, something very… new? Well, new to you two as people but not to the mankind, actually. People have been doing this and that ever since they realized that there're holes in human bodies that can fit… stuff… inside. Like, er, metaphorical wands."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Harry asked, and he could see Heidi's form shaking while she kept the book pressed against her face. Was she crying or something? He didn't hear sniffling.

"Truls wants to show you his true… He wants to give you a ride, Harry. And, and, and… give you a colourful experience."

"Is he taking me to a carnival?"

"Oh, it would be a  _carnival_  alright," Heidi said, her voice strangely muffled. Harry glanced at her only to see that she had replaced the book with a pillow and was pressing it against her face while she was still shaking. Was she all right?

"Harry," Filippa started. "Have you had the talk yet?"

"What?"

"The talk. About sex."

"Oh." Harry flushed, and coughed. "Yes. Somewhat." Sirius had done a terrible job by using a donut and a lollipop and jelly to explain some facts few years ago. But Harry had gotten the gist of it. Besides, he wasn't completely ignorant– he had read books after all that had quite explicit scenes. His personal conclusion had ended up being that sex was rather messy and too taxing to be of interest to him.

"And you know about puberty?"

"Yes."

"And about sexual urges?"

"Yes…"

"There you go, then!" Filippa exclaimed, feeling immensely relieved that her task was over. Harry blinked owlishly at her, before tilting his head to the side while a frown appeared on his face. He thought about asking for more clarifications, but he feared that he'd only get more confusing explanations from his friend.

"I don't get it."

" _Harry_ …"

"But that's okay," Harry hastily added. "Some things just are meant to be mysteries, right?"

"Poor Truls," Heidi said. "I think we need to talk him out of this madness. For the sake of his own health."

"I think I'll go now," Harry said, standing up. "I've got a bit of homework I need to finish. Thank you Filippa. You too, Heidi." He then exited Filippa's apartment, walking towards his own. Asking Filippa had obviously been the wrong move, but who else could he ask? It's not like he had many options whom to ask about this. Should he just confront Truls? Or perhaps the best thing to do was to…not react in any way?

Did  _Truls_  expect him to react somehow?

Harry entered his flat and was surprised to see his mother's owl flying outside, waiting to be let in. Curiously the boy rushed to do so and proceeded to read his mother's letter. Why would she send him a message, though? He'd be home soon enough, so why would— Oh dear.

 

> _My dear Harry,_  
> 
> _As you know, I have been terribly busy with work. Your father, as well, has been so overworked that he had to arrange for the werewolf to temporarily live in a camp instead of our home. It doesn't seem that this situation is going to change anytime soon._
> 
> _I am very sorry to tell you this, my son, but your Christmas holiday will be spent with Gilderoy at Hogwarts. He will take care of you in our absence. We'll send you your gifts, and I promise you that you will love them._
> 
> _Never forget that we love you, Harry. You are the most important person in the lives of your father and I. Take care of yourself._
> 
> _— Mum_


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as he woke up, he knew that it was one of Those Days.

He could _feel_ his magic waiting, right beneath the surface, to be used in ways that would satisfy his heart. There was a strange sort of comfort to having the ability to hurt others, and sometimes Tom needed that comfort. Needed to see their tears and hear their screams. Needed to take his time and leave them with hope only to come back and kill them. Sometimes he would leave his targets with damage that could never be repaired.

On those days people suffered, but Tom – Tom was _content_. On those days he didn’t speak much, didn’t even reply to Nagini as she greeted him in the morning. Didn’t acknowledge the portraits as he made his way through the Riddle Manor, towards the Floo.

There was a heavy, dark feeling inside of him and it kept him calm. That's how it had always been, for as long as he could remember. It wasn't rage or anger. It wasn't fury or even hatred. It was just a need – an all-consuming need to vent, to release a build-up of tension inside of him that he never truly understood.

In all honesty, sometimes he felt pathetic.

It didn't matter that he had already achieved what no other wizard or witch before him had, not when he was in this mood. It made him angry that he had no equals even though the mere thought of someone claiming to be his equal was enough to make him reach for his wand. He was sick of the people around him. Of people in general.

Days like these, Tom wished that he was the only person in the world.

He could hear sounds around him. Each and every single one of those sounds was getting on his nerves, from the wind bellowing outside to the faint sound of a house-elf working in a room nearby.

He stopped in front of the fireplace connected to the Floo, trying to decide whether going to pick a few prisoners from Azkaban to torture and kill was worth having to talk with a few people first. Maybe he should just satisfy his hunger with a few Muggles? He could apparate to a Muggle-infested area, pluck one or two, and vent a bit before going to read the reports about the front.

Ah, _the front_.

Tom’s hold of his want became tighter with agitation as he thought of the rebels.

No, he didn't want to torture Muggles right now. He wanted to hurt _rebels_. Those arrogant traitors that fought against him, the filth that refused to remember its place. Maybe he should personally lead a raid? To remind the people of how brutal war really could be? Some of his henchmen were getting a bit _too_ comfortable.

Or perhaps he could start sending seventh-years to complete the easy missions? Maybe even sixth year students from Durmstrang and Hogwarts? Perhaps he could use that Tournament idea that had been presented to him a while ago to somehow determine the best candidates to be sent for actual combat training? Oh well, he could think of that later. Right now he wanted… he wanted… he  _wanted…_

He wasn't exactly sure what was it what he wanted.

But he knew, from experience, that torturing someone to death was close enough.

*

Gilderoy was dressed in green and red when he came to pick Harry up. He also had colourful bells in his hair and glitter on his face.

"You look like a Christmas tree gone wrong," Harry said. The man smiled brilliantly at him in response while trying very hard to attach a red, round nose to Harry's face.

"Did you say bye-bye to your friends, Harry darling?" Gildy said cheerfully, succeeding in his quest. "Yes? Then let's go! I can't _wait_ to introduce you to Barty-darling… if I can get my hands on him first."

"Have you heard anything from my parents?" Harry asked, pulling off the red nose before the man could cast a sticking charm on it. "Because after mum's last message, I haven't received _anything_. Are they alright?"

"Of course! You needn't worry! Come on, now. The portkey to Hogsmeade will be activating shortly. You already sent your luggage, yes?" Harry nodded, still looking troubled. Most of his friends had left already, and while he wasn't all that thrilled by the idea of going with Gildy to Hogwarts, the thought of staying alone in the apartment complex for the Christmas Holiday was extremely unappealing.

"Yeah. Let's go," Harry said, trying to shrug off the feeling of having forgotten something.

As they travelled with the portkey, the boy tried to distract himself from feeling increasingly nauseated by worrying over whether or not Ron or Draco would be at Hogwarts. It was _very_ unlikely that the Malfoy heir would stay at school for the Christmas Holiday, but maybe Ron was there? Maybe he'd take Harry to see the Gryffindor common room that his parents had talked about?

The portkey took them atop a hill right outside the village. Harry fell face-first into the snow while Gildy brushed imaginary dust off his cape, rearranged the curl on his forehead, and waited patiently for his young companion to stand up and stop glaring.

"This, my dear, is Hogsmeade," Gildy said, pointing at the village. "We'll walk through it and then some before we reach Hogwarts. Come on."

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees. Harry's bad mood eventually vanished as he saw many intriguing shops, among which was the bookshop Tomes and Scrolls that his mother had mentioned once or twice.

"There's a huge library at Hogwarts, right?" Harry asked as the two walked side by side. "Am I allowed to go there?"

"Of course! You can wander as you wish. I'm sure you won't be up to no good."

"Will you let me come alone here to do my shopping? I need to buy some gifts."

"Absolutely not. Besides, I need to buy Barty-darling some gifts too. Mainly a new outfit or two. As much as I love that man- and I love him plenty- I must say his fashion sense is a source of grief to me. Mainly due to its absence."

"Hold on," Harry said, stopping and staring at the man. "Love him? You? _Love_ … Professor Crouch?" He  _had_ thought that Gildy had a crush on the man, but… _love_?

"When you're old enough, you'll understand," Gildy assured him gently. "You too will have a friend who hugs you, touches your hair, smooths your clothes, carries your bags…"

"After avoiding me for no reason for a few weeks?" Harry asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as a realization was about to creep into his mind. "And then everyone else around you just smirks at the two of you and offers nothing but confusing, vague explanations?"

"Why, yes?" Gildy said, looking at Harry with surprise. "You read Witch Weekly?"

"I don't!"

"Then how—?"

"Oh my God," Harry groaned. "Can I  _un_ -realize something after I have realized it?"

"Oh, Harry, never mind _that_ ," Gildy said, his hand finding its way to grip the boy's shoulder as the two started walking again. "There are far more pressing issues to be discussed, after all. You see, I would like to give you some… _advice_. If you could call it that. More like… instructions? Oh, whatever. If you see Barty-darling, and if he talks with you—"

"Why would he talk with me?"

"— memorize every single word of what he says and report them to me. And if he asks you about me—"

"Tell him the truth and warn him away?"

"— tell him the truth of how wonderful and perfect I am."

"You know," Harry said, "we're both talking but somehow I feel like there's no conversation going on."

"Talking? You said something?"

"…"

" _Anyway_ —"

"I should write to Filippa."

"— about Barty…"

*

Admittedly, while Durmstrang was very modern and prestigious and had an extraordinary reputation, Hogwarts was… special. Impressive. Amazing in a way that no other place could be. Harry could  _feel_  the ancient magic humming around him, and he felt as if Hogwarts not only had a story, but  _was_ a story. Maybe that was because, as far as Harry knew, Hogwarts was built with the dreams and hopes of the Founders while Durmstrang was simply made due to necessity?

Did something like that really even _matter_?

"You'll be living in the room next to mine– Headmaster Yaxley was kind enough to allow that to happen."

"Are there any students here during the Christmas holidays?"

"Not many. Mostly muggleborns."

"Really?" Harry breathed, his heart skipping a beat. If he could meet a muggleborn like his mother, maybe he could get a different point of view on the Muggle society. "I completely forgot that muggleborn students are allowed here. I mean, in Durmstrang, you've got to be at least a half-blood. It's weird, actually. One would think that Hogwarts, since it's in the UK which is the Dark Lord's domain, would be the one turning muggleborns away—"

"Harry," Gildy interrupted with uncharacteristic seriousness. "That's not an issue I'd suggest discussing here." Harry's mouth snapped shut, and he swallowed the remaining words, hunching his shoulders. Of course. He'd have to watch his words, his steps, even here. _Everywhere_. If he was to do what Albus wanted him to do, he'd be in even _more_ trouble. Things would be so much tougher and complicated.

And yet, Harry still thought about it. Thought of the possibility of, of… doing  _something_. The feeling of frustration was like a pressure, slowly building inside him. Harry was _sick_ of feeling lost and confused. He was tired of being so indecisive. But he simply didn't know what to do and from where to _begin_.

"I'll introduce you to a good friend of mine, soon," Gildy said, leading Harry through Hogwarts' corridors. "Sybil. She's absolutely delightful! I'm certain that you'll  _love_  her sense of humour." They had turned to a wider hallway that had a few students loitering around, some of them giving Harry appraising looks. The boy knew that his Durmstrang uniform could be recognized, and he felt an unfamiliar twinge of pride.

And then he saw  _her_.

She was small and very thin, and Harry was sure that a fall would break her bones. Her straggly blonde hair was long and pulled into a loose ponytail, and her silvery grey eyes were staring at a spot on the wall as if it was the most fascinating thing in existence. Her wand was behind her ear, and she had a wreath of daisies on her head.

"Who's that?" Harry asked, but they had already walked past her. Harry turned to look, noticing that she wasn't even wearing shoes.

"Who?" Gildy asked in return. "I saw only Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws there. Speaking of Ravenclaw– did you know that both Barty-darling and I were in Ravenclaw? When I was a fifth year student, he had already graduated, which was very sad for me."

"So this unhealthy obsession has a long history?"

"What unhealthy obsession?"

"I remember when you used to claim that you didn't care about him at all," Harry said.

"Denial," Gildy replied dismissively. "Denial is a waste of time, Harry darling. Oh, here we are! This room is yours, mine is that one there. It was actually intended to be the teacher's assistant's bedroom, but for some reason, Barty-darling wanted to live near the Ravenclaw Tower. Oh, maybe he misses old times. Do you like these rooms? Unfortunately, I wasn't the one to decorate this place– I'm not sure who did. Maybe the house-elves."

The room was surprisingly big with its own bathroom, but no kitchen. There were thick, green carpets on the floor, and the furniture was very old-fashioned, if not old. The curtains were white, and Harry could see the windows through them. It was a basic room, but then again, it wasn't as if Harry had expected quarters like the ones he got in Durmstrang– he was here just for a few short weeks before going back to his own school, after all.

"Your trunk is on your bed, as you can see. I'll leave you to unpack," Gildy said. "When you're done, you can go out and wander around if you wish. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, supper at six, and if you get hungry or lost, call for a house-elf."

"Alright," Harry replied. When the door clicked shut behind him, he felt… strange. Slightly hollow inside, and he couldn’t help but think of what his parents were possibly doing, where Sirius was, where  _Tom_  was, what his friends were doing, and maybe he should have just told his mum that he'd rather stay at Durmstrang?

 _'It's pointless to think of that now,'_  Harry thought.  _'I think I'll go look for the library and unpack later.'_  With a sigh, Harry turned to reopen the door and almost yelped in surprise when he saw someone standing there, right outside his room. It was that girl– the little girl he had seen on his way here.

"The Blibbering Humdingers were right," she said, sounding and looking dreamy and distracted.

"Uh, who are you?" Harry asked curiously.

"Luna," the girl replied, "Luna Lovegood. And you? Daddy says that Blibbering Humdingers don't lead astray so you must be someone I was meant to meet. It's nice to meet you for the first time."

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, feeling more and more fascinated with every second that passed. "You're a student he re, right?"

"A first year Ravenclaw," Luna told him, and somehow it felt completely natural for her to grab his arm and pull him away from the doorway to walk through the corridor with her. "Would you like an earring, Harry? You look like an earring could make you happy."

"Uh…"

"You don't believe me, do you? It's alright, not many do."

"It's not that I don't believe you, it's just—"

"You don't think that earrings would make your worries easier to handle?"

"Frankly, no," Harry replied before taking a long look at the girl and feeling yet again that strange sensation. It was as if his magic was  _fluttering_  around them, mingling with hers. "How did you know that? That I’m worried about something, I mean."

"You're covered in Wrackspurts," Luna said faintly. "I saw them earlier when I wore my glasses. Right after you stopped looking at me."

"What… are wrack...spurts?" Harry asked curiously.

"They're invisible," Luna started. "They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy." Harry's lips twisted into a bitter smile as he nodded.

"Sounds like what I've got, all right."

"It's fine," Luna assured him, her hand covering his. "Nowadays, most people do."

*

By midday, Tom was in a considerably brighter mood.

If there was something he hated in his enemies– aside from their views and idiocy, of course– it was when they  _smiled_  at him. It was aggravating. However, almost nothing was quite as delightful was wiping off those smiles for good. There was a special thrill in witnessing the exact moment when an enemy lost their hope and gave up. When they gave into dismay. Even if they didn't beg for mercy, it was written on their faces clearly.

It made Tom feel superior, and more than that– it made his  _opponents_  realize that he was superior. He enjoyed crushing their self-esteems, and sometimes, when he wanted prolonged enjoyment, Tom wouldn't torture a person physically as much as psychologically. Nothing made him feel accomplished the same way driving someone to suicide did.

Good times.

However, this was precisely the kind of enjoyment that Potter was simply unable to feel.

 _'Maybe instead of trying to understand him, I should just pity him,'_ Tom thought. _'I don't need to keep in contact or send him a gift or seek his presence. He's going to become a Death Eater, and eventually he will have to come to me.'_ And yet, he couldn't just let go. There was something about Harry Potter that drove Tom to seek his presence. The boy was young, but he would grow and become a powerful tool.

 _'Except,'_  Tom thought reluctantly,  _'I can't exactly imagine him wearing a Death Eater's mask.'_ And knowing the boy, he would somehow succeed in becoming a Death Eater as independent as he was problematic.

It was alarming. Tom hadn't gotten this far by giving his followers privileges they didn't deserve. Having the brother wand of Tom's own wasn't something the boy had  _achieved_. Perhaps, instead of sending Nagini to Potter, he should send something else? Or maybe he shouldn't send Potter anything at all. He should let  _Potter_  be the one to seek _him_ out and make the first move.

There was so much Tom needed to figure out about Potter before knowing even how to use that particular pawn of his. The dead-alive thing Nagini had talked about was still an unsolved mystery, and Tom was getting frustrated with not knowing things. How could other people, the ones with less knowledge than him, deal with being so  _ignorant_?

Then, a thought occurred to him.

The idea came to him out of nowhere, but the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced of it being the right option. It'd take a while, though– Potter was still in his second year, and he'd have to be fourteen at least for him to take part. He could involve Hogwarts, too… and to keep up appearances, one of the other schools. He'd let his finest Death Eaters take a look at Potter, and the aftermath of that would determine his next move.

 _'A year and a half before I can start,'_ Tom thought.  _'That gives me enough time to settle the battles in Italy and focus on eliminating the hideouts in Ireland. I'll need to send some Healers right to the front and keep them there for a few months to treat the injured and draw in the locals.'_

Only after that was done would he have time to start solving the mystery that was Harry Potter.

Tom leaned back on his chair, startled by the unfamiliar surge of pleasure he felt at the thought of what he could do to Potter once he got the chance.

*

"So this is the famous library of Hogwarts," Harry muttered as he followed Luna into what appeared to be a maze of bookshelves. As they walked, Harry saw study tables nestled in alcoves and between the shelves throughout the place, none of them occupied. What really made him happy, though, was the amount of books surrounding him.

"It closes at eight," Luna told him, looking at something near the top of the shelves they were walking by. "Maybe we can find out a way to get rid of those Wrackspurts around you."

"I don't think that the solution to my troubles will be found here," Harry admitted, feeling gloomy. "I've been so _confused_ lately."

"No, not really," Luna said dismissively, dancing a few steps ahead of him. "You're not confused. You're scared. "

"What?"

"You're not confused; you already know what you should do. But you're scared, and that allows the Wrackspurts fly around you so annoyingly, making your mind funny."

"What the hell do _you_ know?" Harry asked breathlessly. He wasn't angry, as much as… surprised and suspicious. " _How_  do you know?"

"I'm very observant," Luna replied, bending down to pick up a fallen chess piece and tying it into her hair, not minding at all the little soldier's flailing. "Do you want to talk about it? I could listen. I'm very good at listening."

"I don't—"

"— know if you can trust me?"

"Yes."

"As much as you can trust yourself if you weren’t you," Luna said, and oddly enough, that made  _sense_  to Harry, even if he didn't quite understand why or how.

"I'm confused," Harry said again, but the words felt overused and false. Luna smiled at him and shook her head.

"You're scared," she repeated, her voice void of accusation. She was simply making a statement. "You lack courage."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"Mm-m. Yes."

"You," Harry started, feeling uneasy and now a little bit angry, "have no idea what I have been through!"

"It doesn't really matter, you know," Luna said, twirling while tugging at the end of a few strands of her long hair. "Not really. What matters is here and now. The past isn't going to change just because you're too afraid of picking a future."

"I'm not scared," Harry insisted. "I'm not… I'm not a  _coward._ " And of course the past mattered – it’s what brought him here after all!

"Courage can't see around corners, but goes around them anyway," Luna replied, her voice just as dreamy and calm as it had been during the whole conversation.

"Mignon McLaughlin," Harry said, recognizing the words. "But I still don't know why you— from where did you draw those conclusions of yours?"

"You don't know, even though you felt it, too?" Luna asked, blinking at him curiously. "The connection. I think it's what made the Blibbering Humdingers lead me to you. They can sense these things, you see. They can tell."

"C-connection?"

“We’re a bit like oceans and lakes, you’ll find.”

"I don't understand you," Harry admitted, wondering why he wasn't feeling annoyed at the strange girl. However, as odd as it sounded… he felt as if he was talking to  _himself._  "How do you know so much? I mean, you said that you're observant and that we have a connection, but…"

"Aren't you tired of doubting? You've already seen beyond the veil of reality, Harry. Why do you insist on keeping your eyes closed?"

"You don't understand. You think you do, but really you  _don't_  ."

"Is it easier to believe that?"

"Stop," Harry finally snapped. "I don't… Don't talk to me about that. Please."

"Do you want to go look for Gibberdubs with me?" Luna asked pleasantly, changing the subject. "They hide under snow and bring good luck to their finders."

"No, thank you," Harry replied. "I think I'll… stay here and read."

"As you wish," Luna said, smiling dreamily. "I'm happy to have met you. I'll see you soon again."

Harry couldn't help but feel as if meeting Luna was the start of  _something_. But what?

*

On the evening of the third day of his visit, Harry was ambushed.

Well, not exactly  _ambushed_. He had been walking towards his room when someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into what turned out to be an empty classroom. Alarmed, Harry turned to take a look at the ambusher, only to be surprised when he came face to face with a pale and cranky-looking Crouch Jr.

"Professor," Harry started, clearly surprised. "What—"

"You're Harry Potter," Crouch hissed, his voice unexpectedly soft. "A second year Durmstrang student."

"Yes sir."

"You're also here under the care of Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Yes," Harry said, looking resigned to his fate. "Not by choice, though."

"I was hesitant in the beginning," Crouch said, "but I am left with no options. I need your help."

"Let me guess," Harry sighed. "He's been harassing you?"

"You could say that," Crouch admitted with a grimace. "In a most inappropriate, showy manner. I do not appreciate waking up to see a carpet of purple feathers on the floor."

"He's good at breaking and entering, isn't he?"

"Alarmingly so."

"I'm not sure how I can help you, though," Harry said. "I can distract him during my stay here, but when I leave…"

"Can you not," Crouch hesitated, looking for the right words, "steer him to a different direction?"

"He's in love with you," Harry said bluntly, and Crouch flinched. Was that a faint blush making an appearance? "I can't just point him towards someone else and say fetch."

"I'll… teach you the basics of duelling," Crouch offered. "Just get him off my back." The man was clearly desperate, and while Harry didn't think that he'd succeed, he also didn't want to turn down the opportunity to receive some teaching. Duelling was interesting and he had read several books about it, and knowing how to duel was definitely something he would benefit from.

"Alright," Harry said. "I'll try. When will you start teaching me?"

"I'll write you a pass," Crouch replied, pulling out a piece of paper and conjuring a quill wandlessly. "After curfew– it's at nine– go to the seventh floor and wait for me near the tapestry depicting the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. Do not talk about this to anyone or I'll make you sorry. Are we clear, Potter?"

"Crystal," said Harry.

*

The meeting was all Harry could think of as he made his way back towards his room. A part of him was still disbelieving– the meeting had lasted less than a minute, maybe– and  _did he really just score dueling lessons with a renowned duelist such as Crouch_! Pity that he had to keep quiet about it– this was something Harry would have loved to talk about with Truls or Filippa.

Harry turned around the corner only to see Gildy talking with a strange woman who was wearing a gauzy shawl covered with shining sequins and a pair of bright orange slippers.

"Harry," Gildy exclaimed at the sight of him, "perfect timing! Let me introduce you to one of my close friends, Sybill Trelawney, the professor of Divination and an excellent Seer. Sybill, this is my charge, Harry Potter." The woman turned to take a look at Harry, who felt uncomfortable as she stared at him with wide eyes through a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

"I see misfortune befall you," she said, her voice raspy. " _Loss_. So much loss. And _death_. How is your mother?"

"She's fine," Harry replied, feeling a chill wash over him. "She's perfectly fine."

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," the woman murmured, and instantly Harry knew that he wouldn't like her. That he wouldn't be able to like her. Who was she to—

"If that was all," Harry said, trying to not scowl, "I'd like to go to my room."

"You shouldn't dismiss my warnings so easily," Trelawney reprimanded. "The light of Life only makes the shadows of Death stronger."

"Excuse me," Harry snapped, pushing past the two. Was Hogwarts the gathering place of oddities or something? Luna, Gildy, Trelawney… and then there was Snape whom Harry had seen a few times since the man was his mother's friend. Were there any  _ordinary_  people at Hogwarts?

' _I need to write to mum_ ,' Harry decided as soon as he entered his room. He didn't want to believe Trelawney, but she had… well, it could be a guess. A bluff. But why would she talk about death to him if she didn't know—? Was she like Luna? No, no. Luna was different from everyone else– Harry knew that even though he had no idea _how_.

"I must figure out why I end up at the train station in the first place," Harry said aloud. "That's the first step. To find out why and what does it mean."

Meeting Luna, scoring some dueling lessons, meeting Trelawney, and needing to write to his mother… With all that, Harry had completely forgotten about his realization regarding Truls. As things were, whether or not his best friend had a potentially embarrassing crush on him wasn't something Harry had the energy to worry about right now.

Luna had called him a coward. Maybe he had been, partly at least. Afraid of finding out the truth, afraid of doing something– anything. But it was going to stop now. Harry was going to find out how to stop these trips to the train station, and he was going to tell Albus to give up on trying to convince Harry to go against the Dark Lord.

He should go to the library as soon as possible to start his research… but what kind of books could possibly have the information he needed? Maybe, instead of a library, he could go to a bookstore and ask for a book on how to find uncommon information? He'd have to go to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade soon anyway, since Christmas was only three days away.

So much to do, so little time.

*

Half past eight, Harry left his room, clutching the pass Crouch had written for him in his hand. It took him some time and several wrong turns before he found the tapestry depicting the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. Harry had read the biography written about that man and hadn't found him impressive _or_ remarkable, and didn’t know why someone would bother to immortalize any aspect of his life.

When Crouch arrived, he didn't seem to even notice Harry at first. Instead, the man walked a few times across the hallway with a scowl firmly on his face before a doorway suddenly appeared.

"Come on, Potter," he said, still not looking at Harry. "In we go."

"What's this place?" Harry asked curiously, following the man inside. "A hidden dueling arena?"

"Not quite," Crouch replied. "It's known as the Room of Requirements. Its existence isn't really common knowledge so I'd appreciate you keeping quiet about it. This room appears only when needed and transforms itself into whatever you need it to be."

"How fascinating," Harry muttered. "I wonder what kind of magic could achieve that…"

"It's said that somewhere in Durmstrang there's a room quite similar to this," Crouch continued. "Except that while this room gives you what you consciously desire, that room gives you what you subconsciously need. It's just a rumour though, and the existence of that room has never been confirmed. But that aside, I trust that you have your wand with you?"

"Of course," Harry said. "Will we start imme—"

"Of course we won't duel right now," Crouch cut in, sighing with irritation. "I'd kill you in half a second. I'm going to first teach you a few spells that you must practice. One spell for defense and another for attack. Remember, however, that most spells– even the ones that seem useless– can be used in a duel. Winning a duel is really more about _how_ you use the spells instead of  _which_  spells do you use."

"Even the milder spells?"

"If not to injure, then to distract."

"Is there a way to cast two spells simultaneously?" Harry asked. "For example, by using two wands? Can a wizard have two wands?"

"It's impossible to cast more than one spell at the same moment," Crouch replied. "You can however, non-verbally, cast a few spells in rapid succession right after one another which, if done fast enough, could give the impression of several spells being cast at the same time. What comes to owning multiple wands… it's possible. Your first one, however, is the one that will serve you the best, and no other wand will _choose_  you like it did. You can acquire a second wand by winning it from its owner in a battle. Killing the previous owner to prevent any  _lingering bonds_  from distracting the wand is advisable."

"Have you ever… taken someone else's wand?"

"I have a few wands from several Rebels, but I do not carry them around all the time. Anyway, we have wasted time already– let's start. Show me your grip. Yes, boy, how do you hold your wand—?"

_*_

"You look like you didn't sleep last night," Luna said to Harry when she sat next to him during breakfast. "Did you stay up all night hunting for Wibbleberries?"

"Something like that," Harry muttered in response before yawning widely. "Where's the hair-thing you wore yesterday?"

"It's gone," Luna replied simply, and didn’t elaborate further on how it had disappeared. "Want to come later on look for it with me?" In all honesty, what Harry wanted to do was to go back to his room and sleep, but he didn't feel comfortable with the idea of leaving Luna wandering alone– what if something happened to her? What if she… tripped or fell down the stairs or something? And so, instead of excusing himself politely, Harry nodded tiredly and allowed himself to be dragged away after breakfast.

At least they weren't looking for an imaginary creature, but Luna's lost hair-thing that Harry didn't know what to call. Perhaps he could use a locator spell to find the trinket?

"Do you want a copy of the Quibbler, Harry?" Luna asked as they made their way through the corridors. Harry shook his head. What in the world was a quibbler anyway? From where did this girl  _get_  these ideas? Harry had thought that  _he_  was too deep in stories, but compared to Luna, that definitely wasn't the case!

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though. If Luna viewed the world differently, then perhaps she could have answers other people didn't have, simply because other people overlooked things that were noticeable to her?

And, well, vice versa.

"Luna," Harry started. "How often do you lose your things?"

"Often," the girl replied. "I'm not worried, though. I'm sure my things will turn up eventually. Maybe the Snorkling Sleizers are borrowing them, and it'd be terribly rude of me to demand them back."

"You," Harry said suddenly, "are odd."

"Oh, Harry," Luna replied with a pleasant smile. "You're not so ordinary yourself, are you?”

"I guess not," Harry admitted, and it felt… somehow  _weird_  to say it aloud. They were on the third floor when Luna suddenly pulled him into a room full of shiny cups, plates, shields and other trophies.

"This is the Trophy Room," Luna said. "I wonder if I'll find it here. The Snorkling Sleizers like shiny things, you see, so I wouldn't be surprised. Oh, there's a mouse. It's a cute little mouse, right, Harry? I wonder if it's a real mouse or a Snorkling Sleizer pretending to be a mouse. Or maybe it's neither. Maybe it's a whole new undiscovered race that looks and acts like mice but actually isn't… What do you think, Harry?"

But Harry wasn't listening. He had stepped closer to take a look at the trophies when he saw a vaguely familiar name on one of them. A burnished gold shield hanging on the wall had been awarded to Tom Riddle in 1944. Why was that name so familiar? Someone had said that name to him before… who? A classmate? No… Ron? Draco? Sirius? His pare— _Albus_. Albus had said…

_"That Lord Voldemort of yours. His name is Tom Riddle."_

"Luna," Harry said breathlessly, "can we look for your stuff later?"

"Of course, Harry," the girl replied. "Shall we—"

"Go to the library? Yes."

As they rushed towards the library, Harry couldn't help but wonder at the world's blatant… what should he call it? Pretentiousness? Hypocrisy? The Dark Lord Voldemort was a known half-blood, and yet, he ruled a world where the purity of blood was an important factor. How was it that the people knew of him being a half-blood, and yet it didn't seem as if many knew of him being Tom Riddle– otherwise the shield in the trophy room would have been in a much more noticeable place, surely.

Harry  _had_  thought that there were some people who didn't really care about blood purity, but put up a front to lure in power and fortune. But surely there were some who thought less of the Dark Lord for being a half-blood?

 _'He rules this country and affects most of the world beyond it greatly,'_ Harry thought.  _'I wonder how he achieved that. He… did he start from nothing or did he have an inheritance?'_

"What are we looking for?" Luna asked when the two finally arrived at the library.

"Is there a list of Hogwarts students?" Harry asked. "I need to look for a student who—"

"There're yearbooks somewhere here. I saw Madam Pince rearranging them once," Luna replied. "Who are we looking for? If you know when the person you're looking for graduated, you can easily find their name and picture and general information in a yearbook."

"Where are those yearbooks? I need from… year 1944 onwards. Can you find them? Do you know where they are?"

"This way." It didn't take them long to find the yearbooks, and while Harry didn't find his target in the yearbook of 1944, they found him in the yearbook of 1945.

"Here he is," Harry muttered.

_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE; b. 31.12.1926  
Student: 1938–1945; Slytherin House._

"He was a Prefect and the Head Boy," Luna read aloud, standing next to Harry and leaning her head against his shoulder. "They even have a picture of him."

"I've seen this guy before," Harry whispered. The picture was in black and white which meant that Harry couldn't figure out what were the man's eye and hair colour. But there was something familiar in Tom Riddle's face that Harry couldn't exactly put his finger on.

"Who is he?" Luna asked, slipping her hand into Harry's.

"Promise not to tell anyone?" Harry asked, knowing already that he could trust Luna as much as he could trust himself.

"Of course," Luna assured him. "I know how to keep your secrets, Harry."

"It's the Dark Lord," Harry whispered. "This guy… years after this picture was taken, became Lord Voldemort."

"No wonder he looks so lonely, then," Luna noted.

"What? _Lonely_?"

"Yes. I wonder if the Umbugular Slashkilters attacked him."

"Luna. He's the  _Dark Lord._ "

"I know, Harry. But he's a human too, isn't he? I think he is. And Daddy says that even if I suspect otherwise, I mustn't tell anyone. It's apparently illegal. Funny, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Harry muttered, biting his lip and staring at the picture of the 18-year-old Voldemort. Was it presumptuous of Harry to feel as if he could relate to this guy somehow? If Harry was going to walk the path his heart told him to… it could be dangerous and devastating. Had Voldemort ever hesitated? Had he doubted himself? Or had he succeeded because he  _hadn't_  doubted or hesitated?

Maybe it was high time for Harry to start talking with Tom again. He could ask the guy about Lord Voldemort… and hope for the best.

*

"I just feel, dear Sybil, as if love is waiting for me just around the corner," Gildy sighed during dinner, shooting meaningful glances towards Barty who tried very hard to not see or hear the blonde man. Why was he sitting near the two frauds anyway? It was probably Yaxley's fault. Most things were.

"You never know, Gilderoy," Trelawney said dreamily. "Love could be within your reach soon enough. Just let it wait for a few short moments, and then  _pluck it out_ …"

 _'I want to go back home,'_  Barty thought morosely, staring at his meal. Maybe he should ditch his agreement with Potter and just assassinate the glittery fraud that was sparkling at him?

"My love is lost," Gildy moaned. "Because Mr. Narnia is so  _oblivious_!"

_'I can hear you! And I know who you're talking about!'_

"Maybe you've been too subtle. How about you give love potions a try?"

_'Stop encouraging him, you old liar!'_

"I don't know… I don't want him to love me just because of a love potion."

"Oh, Gilderoy, you're so noble."

"I should try a lust potion instead. One night together is bound to get something started."

_'I'm going to kill him.'_

"Do you know from where to get a lust potion, dear?"

"I was planning on taking Harry tomorrow to Hogsmeade anyway, so I'll just let him wander around alone or with a friend– he has been terribly attached to that little Ravenclaw girl, it's cute– while I go and buy the potion. Or check if it's available. If it isn't, I'll have to resort to plan B."

"Which is?"

"I'll barge in when he's having his daily evening-bath."

"…he… how do you know if Cro— Mr. Narnia bathes every evening?"

"Oh, I observed."

"Well! How dedicated of you! I'm sure he's honoured!”

 _'Someday I'll boil the two of you together,'_ Barty thought, trying to not grab his wand and start the bloodshed.  _'To death. And I'll watch and laugh.'_ He looked up, searching for the Potter boy whom he quickly enough found sitting with a blonde Ravenclaw girl. The boy was… strange. He was well-mannered, quiet but didn't seem to be shy. He was also surprisingly serious and hard-working… and very hard to predict and understand.

It was as if there's an invisible wall separating the boy from the rest of the people. Barty couldn't imagine what the boy would want to become or what he was thinking. Even in dueling tactics– not that they had dueled yet… Barty had thrown in a few questions for Potter to answer with surprising results. At times when Barty had expected a shield or a form of defense, the boy would attack instead, and sometimes, Potter would suggest a clever transfiguration trick instead of a known hex.

What also was very interesting was the boy's approach on how to attack someone with their defense shields up– the child had immediately suggested blowing up the ground beneath the enemy's feet, for example, instead of even trying to break the shields. It was so very refreshing to know that there were people who seemed to actually  _think_  about dueling tactics instead of just charging in. He couldn't wait until Potter grew up and became an active duelist.

What Barty found potentially troubling, though, was that the boy didn't seem to have presence  _at all_. If Potter was to stand still in a corner and be quiet, chances were that Barty wouldn't be able to even realize that he was present. It was, of course, a very useful talent… but it was the sort of skill you would want to have yourself but never see another person with it.

Especially not a kid like Potter.

*

Harry was in his room, thinking.

He had a lot to think about, and yet, it was hard to organize his thoughts. Mainly, though, he was mulling over a belated realization. Didn't Crouch say that Durmstrang had a room relatively similar to the one where they trained? How can a room know what a person's subconscious desires were? What kind of magic had been used? Somehow, to Harry, it seemed that the magic they used nowadays was nothing compared to the magic that had been used centuries ago.

What had  _changed_?

Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking of Tom Riddle either. He wanted to know more of who the Dark Lord had been before he had taken over the Wizarding World of Britain, but he could only imagine what kind of trouble he could get into for researching that. Ah, life had been so much easier when he had had only his stories surrounding him. If only Harry could get guidance… Will Stanton had had Merriman, and Garion had had Belgarath, and Polgara… But who did Harry have? Albus? Who was… who exactly?

 _'Maybe Albus studied here too,_ ' Harry thought suddenly.  _'But how could I search anything about him? I only know his first name and what he looks like…'_

The best thing he could do was to ask Tom's advice. Maybe he should stop thinking of Tom Riddle as  _Tom_ Riddle, since the name 'Tom' belonged already to someone else? What did the Dark Lord look like now? It was known that the man didn't allow his pictures to be taken, but Harry knew that he was past his seventies or something… Was he ever going to retire? Or was it true what some people believed…?

Sirius had once told Harry's parents that some suspected that the Dark Lord was  _immortal._

There had been disbelief and awe in their voices, but Harry… Harry still could remember the absolute feeling of _wrongness_ that had almost overwhelmed him. He… knew without a doubt that no one, absolutely  _no one,_ had the 'right' to be immortal. Harry wasn't sure where this knowledge came from, but so deep in his heart was the belief of it that he didn't have a thought of doubt. This belief had been with him ever since he could remember– from the first time he read about immortality, the _feeling_ …

Ah, whatever, this wasn't the time to think about anyone's rumoured immortality; Harry had a letter to write. The boy dipped the tip of his quill into the bottle of red ink before starting to write.

_"Dear Tom…"_


	10. Chapter 10

> _Dear Tom,_
> 
> _I wish to meet you soon, there's a lot I want to ask you about and I hope that you'll be able to answer._
> 
> _I know you might not wish to see me again – it has been quite a while after all and we didn't part on best terms – but I don't think anyone else can help me. I'm currently at Hogwarts, spending the Christmas Holiday with a friend of my parents. I think I could sneak out at some point and meet you in Hogsmeade (it's a little village nearby)._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harry Potter._
> 
> _PS. How are you?_

"If your followers were to see you now,” Nagini hissed, “they'd think again whether they want to bow down to you or just find someone else."

"Look," Tom hissed in reply while standing on his desk with Harry's letter still in his hand. "I haven't had this much fun with anyone since I was born unless it involved somebody’s death. Probably. Do you know how many decades that is?"

"No. But I know it makes you look pathetic," Nagini said, not bothering to lift her head to take another look at her master. "And what happened to _your I-don't-care-about-Potter, he's-only-a-random-loser-and-I'm-the-Dark-Lord_ attitude you've been sporting for the last few centuries?"

"He is just a kid who only happens to have the twin of my wand," Tom said absently, wondering if he should just jump off the desk onto the floor or if he should step on the chair first. "I'm just investigating to make sure that that's all of what he is. I'm being cautious. Besides, he wants to ask questions. So do I! I found nothing about his dead-alive issue so I'm going to try and find out by observing him."

"You're going to _meet_ him?"

"After Christmas and before the end of the year, since people will be mostly meeting their families or friends then and there won't be crowds wandering outside."

"It's not like there are many outside of your Inner Circle who'd recognize you anyway. Between us, I'm the… what's the word? Celebrity? The more recognizable one?"

"I wonder if Potter is going to ask me about politics and the war… He might."

"…boring."

"Should I tell him that one of his classmates died? I just got a report regarding that," Tom said, before frowning and shaking his head. "He'd just want to know from where I got the information and how could I justify that the Durmstrang reports are sent to me without revealing my true status? Besides, he's unpredictable. What if he reacts weirdly?"

"Like?"

"I don't know. What if he _cries_ or something? How do I make someone stop crying without killing them?"

"Just throttle him till he passes out. That works. People are happier when they're unconscious."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I haven't yet met anyone who complained about anything while they were unconscious."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Also…"

"What is it?"

"You're a really bad dancer. Don't dance on the table ever again. You'll fall and break your spine and my primal instincts are telling me that you won't know how to explain _that_ to your healers."

*

"This is sickening," Emalda Brown muttered while pulling a white sheet over yet another corpse. "I feel like there's no end to this."

"No kidding," Lily Potter sighed, exhausted. She had been working almost non-stop for the past few weeks and was just about ready to call for a break of a few days – not that she could, even if she wanted to. It wasn't as if wars paused for Christmas just because the people wanted to celebrate.

Lily's long red hair had been cut short to make it easier to manage. Her skin that had always been a bit pale was almost ashen and her lively green eyes looked tired. There were lines on her face that hadn't been there before and often at night she' d press her face against her pillow and cry. She missed her family _so much_. She wanted to see James and be protected by him and she wanted to hug Harry and spend time with her precious son. But she couldn't. Not even for a day.

She _hated_ staying here. Most of the other healers were Italian and almost half didn't speak English very well. The War Hospital was always so _filthy_ and _noisy_ and there weren't enough healers working. The constant urgency to treat the worst injuries first made everyone sloppy regarding hygiene and treating non-fatal injuries. Lily wanted to go back _home_ , return to her ordinary shifts at St. Mungos and worry about Harry's grades and James's late nights out with Sirius instead of… _this_. She wanted to be with her _family_.

But quitting wasn't an option.

James was stuck somewhere in Ireland fighting for ideals that he didn't fully believe in and her son was at Hogwarts for the break. Lily hoped that at least Harry's Christmas would be an enjoyable one. She had received a few letters from him, but she hadn't had the opportunity to reply to any of them – she had barely managed to scribble something on a card and send it, apologizing for the lack of a gift and a proper party.

"I didn't know that there were that many Rebels," Emalda said. "I thought that there were less than hundred here. How can they manage to keep fighting us when we have _hundreds_ of trained Death Eaters—"

"The battle started when we attacked a Rebel camp," Lily cut in quietly. "They're fighting like this to keep their families safe. They're giving all of what they have because their backs are up against the wall and they have no other option but to win or to see their families executed."

"This is war, isn't it?" Emalda whispered, blinking her tears away. "Back in England there has been only whispers of a possible war, but here it's already the current reality. What's the point of all this… killing? Why can't we just live and let others live?"

"I don't know."

"I feel like… we're fighting for nothing here. We've got nothing in Italy that we need to defend. Is this war still right?"

"My son once said," Lily started, closing her eyes. "That one should never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime. I still wonder if that applies to all wars or just a few."

"You have a son," Emalda smiled, leaning forward. "How old is he? He's a Death Eater?"

"He's twelve. Studies at Durmstrang."

"You miss him a lot."

"Yeah," Lily admitted quietly. "He, my Harry, he's… a good child. He's a bit of a dreamer and likes his stories but I know that he's got a good head on his shoulders and a heart of gold. I hope… I hope that he won't ever have to fight in a war like this."

"I wish I could say that's every mother's wish," Emalda said. "But I know what kind of mothers are in the ranks."

"We need some Dittany here! " a healer Lily didn't recognize called suddenly, interrupting the conversation of the two women. "We've got four severely splinched wizards!"

"Back to work," Lily sighed. "This never ends."

"It's past midnight," Emalda noticed and turned to look at the redhead who had grabbed a bottle of Dittany Extract and was heading towards the splinched patients. "Merry Christmas, I guess."

*

_We're on the island of mystic toys._

_Here we don't want to stay_

_We want to travel with Santa Claus in his magic sleigh_

Harry had to admit that the Christmas Feast at Hogwarts was fantastic. It was attended by the students who hadn't gone home for the Holidays, the Professors – including Snape, who was shooting occasional glares towards Harry – and a few guests, none of which Harry could recognize. There were four Christmas trees in the Great Hall, the stars of the ceiling twinkled merrily and there was even a choir or singing gingerbreads floating around.

"Headmaster Yaxley really likes Christmas," Luna said while trying to decide between roasted and boiled potatoes, before just taking a bit of both. "Maybe it's because—"

"Hey Loony," a girl who was passing by with her friend cut in. "Got any gifts from your friends?"

"Imaginary friends," her friend added. "Since she doesn't have any real ones." Snickering they continued their way towards the end of the table. Harry stared at them for a few moments, bewildered at witnessing something like this happening right in front of him, before turning to Luna.

"Can nothing be done about that?" he asked.

"There's no need," Luna told him. "Their words don't affect me one way or another."

"You don't feel slightly hurt?"

"I don't have a reason to."

"But they insulted you."

"By saying that I don't have friends? I have you, which means that they're wrong and that their insult is invalid," Luna said with an easy smile. "It usually is like that, you know. A bully who doesn't even know you – it doesn't even have to be a bully. Simply someone who disagrees with you or doesn't like your personality. Someone like that could call you all sorts of things but they're all just guesses. It's like raindrops trying to hit me through a wall of stone."

"In time water can wear down the stone," Harry told her quietly. "Even if the first thousand times can be shrugged off with ease. And I know that these people don't stick to words only."

"This just means that I have to get stronger, right?" Luna said, leaning her head against his shoulder while reaching for his bottle of pumpkin juice. "Like you, Harry."

"I'm not that strong," Harry replied, thinking of his classmates. "But Luna, those bullies have to be stopped before things escalate further. And aren't you, you know, lonely?"

"One can be alone without being lonely. You just have to start liking yourself and your own company."

"But—"

"Not everyone in this world will like you, Harry, just like you will not like everyone in this world," Luna said, her dreamy smile widening. "That's good. That's how it's supposed to be. It's not wrong. Of course being disliked doesn't feel good, but if you're disliked by someone who doesn't even _know_ you, then might as well just forget about it. Have you tasted these potatoes? They're delicious!" The abrupt change of subject caught Harry off-guard, and he stared at Luna silently for a few moments before managing to nod.

"Delicious, yeah."

"Your problem is that you think too much about your problems," Luna continued. "You think too much and do too little. But don't worry; I'll still give you your Christmas gift."

"Thank you. I'll give you yours, too."

Harry had realized that he couldn't count on Gildy to take him to Hogsmeade, and so with the help of Luna and a few catalogues he had figured out how and what to order. The bill he sent back home where it'd wait until one of his parents returned to pay it.

 _'I wonder what they're doing,'_ Harry thought, unable to shrug off the worry he was feeling. He had received a card from his mother and short letter from his father – neither had had the opportunity to buy him anything, and while Harry didn't necessarily even _want_ gifts, it just made him realize how busy his parents really were.

_'I hope they're okay… I wish I could see them already.'_

"We can go now," Luna said with a smile. "I'm finished with this and you don't look like you're about to eat anymore."

"Ah, yeah." Harry stood up and held his hand out for the younger girl. "Let's go to my room, then."

*

"Potter!" a squeaky voice called, and soon a short man with wide blue eyes and a balding head sat next to James, who was having his lunch break. "Almost didn't see you here."

"Pettigrew," James said in response. Of all the people in the camp, it had to be this wimp of a man who wasn't reliable _or_ competent. James could vaguely remember Peter Pettigrew from Hogwarts – he had been a Slytherin. Not loyal enough for Hufflepuff, not brave enough for Gryffindor and not smart enough for Ravenclaw, but apparently cunning enough for Slytherin.

"I heard we'll be transferred from Waterford to Tramore soon," Pettigrew said, holding a mug of hot mulled wine in his hand. "Suspicious activity there too."

"Mm-hm."

"I heard your wife is in Italy? How are you coping with the stress? I mean, you're worried about her, right?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," James replied sharply. Had it been Sirius, then of course James would have confessed all of his worries, but this was _Pettigrew_. Why was the loser focusing on James anyway? Why wasn't Sirius here? Damn that stupid dog.

"At least your son is safe," Pettigrew continued.

"I know that Harry is safe," James snapped. "But my wife isn't, so shut it!"

"Touchy," Pettigrew muttered, before smiling brightly again. "But this is war and there are no wars without casualties."

"What the fuck?" James growled, dropping his fork and standing up. "Stay away from me Pettigrew or I'll—"

"Curse me?" Pettigrew cut in, standing up as well. He was in no way a threatening sight, and yet James couldn't help but take a step back. "Sit down, James. Finish your lunch before going out to fight." After a moment of hesitation, James reluctantly sat down again, and immediately Pettigrew followed suit.

"Don't talk to me," James hissed, grabbing his fork again. "I don't want you to ever talk about my wife again."

"What about your son?" Peter grinned, a knowing spark in his eyes. "I was surprised to hear that you have a son, to be honest. You see, my mother used to work as a midwife before she returned to France."

James felt his whole body freeze and for a few moments he wasn't sure if he knew how to breathe. His heartbeat was loud, so loud and there was an unpleasant feeling inside him. How did— Nobody was supposed to know, no one but him and Lily and the midwife. It was nothing. It didn't matter. It had been a mistake. The midwife had been confused, she had admitted her mistake. And it had been so long ago, they had already forgotten. It had been nothing. There was no proof—

"Wh-what, did you think that the baby was a girl?" James sneered, finishing his food in a few mouthfuls and standing up. He wanted to leave before Pettigrew spoke again, because this unpleasant feeling wasn't vanishing and—

"No," Pettigrew called after James, who didn't turn or slow down. "Nobody ever claimed it to be a girl. I heard it was a stillborn."

*

They had dropped first by the Ravenclaw Tower for Luna to fetch Harry's gift, before the two made their way towards Harry's room. When they finally arrived, Luna shoved the relatively big box into Harry's arms for him to unwrap immediately and bounced to take a closer look at the other gifts he had received. The present he had bought for her was on his table, but the girl didn't grab it yet.

"You got lots of cards as well," she said.

"Ah, yeah. I haven't read all of them yet," Harry replied, setting the box onto his bed and starting to open it warily, not knowing what to expect.

"Your parents didn't send you any gifts?"

"Yeah. I didn't expect them to – they're both very busy. It's oka… huh?" Harry had unwrapped Luna's gift and he stared at it with confusion. "Luna… this is a gas mask. A muggle gas mask. I read about them when I researched the history of air-cleaning spells."

"Why would you research the history of air-cleaning spells?"

"I was writing an ess— wait, that's not the question here, Luna. Why are you giving me this?"

"I have one too. We match."

"But what do I do with it!"

"It’ll give you a breath when you’ve gone none left,” Luna said, smiling dreamily. "And see how many people scream at the sight of you. It's fascinating."

"…I'm impressed," Harry admitted reluctantly. "I mean, it's terrible, but…"

"There's a darker side to all of us. That's my gift there, right?"

"Oh yes. You can open it if you want," Harry replied. He was tempted to try on the gas mask, but for some reason he felt slightly reluctant to do so. He didn't get the feeling that he _shouldn't_ wear the mask, no. He got the feeling that he shouldn't wear the mask _right now_.

"Lovely," Luna said with a pleased smile as she lifted the music box she had received for closer inspection. "There's an owl outside your window, by the way."

"What?" Harry exclaimed, turning to see that indeed, a rather large owl was waiting to be let in. As soon as Harry opened the window, the owl dropped in a tiny envelope before sweeping out again. Luna, who was sitting under his desk while listening to the sleepy melody of the music box, didn't pay him any attention. Hoping for it to be a message from one of his parents, Harry hurriedly opened the envelope, and was disappointed to find only a neatly folded piece of paper.

> _27th of this month at 13:00. Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks Inn, room 11. Wear a hat and hide your face. Come alone._
> 
> _\- "Tom"_

Strangely enough, even though this meeting was what Harry wanted, the first thought that came to his mind was _'what if he kills me?'_ Perhaps he was being paranoid… besides, Harry knew that this secrecy was necessary. Tom – whoever he really was – had to be someone high-ranked and infamous, which meant that if someone caught wind of their meeting, things could turn complicated and uncomfortable questions might be asked.

Harry didn't want that.

This wasn't like meeting at Durmstrang – there'd be nothing that would stop Tom from killing Harry if the man decided to do so. However, Harry needed to ask his questions and there was no one else but Tom who could answer them.

"Why don't you open the rest of your gifts?" Luna asked suddenly. "And then read the letters? You look like you're thinking too much again. You'll be getting wrinkles if you keep that up." Deciding to worry later about whether or not to meet Tom after all, Harry nodded and moved to do as advised. He received books from Truls, Filippa and even Sirius– although the man had sent him _Becoming Animagus_ by Lord Austen Jane, not a storybook. From Gildy, Harry received a pair of high-heeled white boots that the boy decided to burn as soon as he got the chance. Or maybe he could give them to Filippa? What had Gildy been _thinking_?

 _'Or maybe that's the problem,'_ Harry thought sourly, glaring at the boots. _'He didn't think. Like always.'_

*

"Just because I said that it's _fun_ doesn't actually mean that I like doing this all day," Bellatrix Lestrange said, eyeing the five caged wizards in front of her with a bored face. "Life's not all fun, you see? My Lord wants answers and you're being stingy and mean. Now tell me so I can finish you off already."

"Your negotiation skills leave much to be desired, cousin," Sirius said, not looking up from the documents he was supposedly reading. "Have you tried to use Imperio on any of them yet?"

"Of course! But they keep somehow either avoiding the question or telling me nonsense about birds and sand. There's clearly a spell of some kind acting as a barrier between the information and I. Which means that the information has to be _given_ , not _taken_."

"If that's true, that rules out Veritaserum as well."

"I tried to threaten them, of course," Bellatrix sighed. "Even killed two of them. But they're still keeping quiet. Ah, maybe I should… oh, yes, why didn't I think of that before?" She smiled, and once again Sirius realized with a start how… outstandingly beautiful Bellatrix actually was. All Blacks were beautiful, of course, but Bellatrix took it to near perfection with her flawless skin, ruby lips and dark, long hair. Admittedly, though, her personality was _nasty_.

"This ought to work," the woman muttered, casting a few spells to enlarge the room and then transfiguring four new cages that looked exactly like the original one. "Help me, cousin. I'm going to put these dogs into separate cells and Legilimens the _life_ out of them!"

"Don't call them dogs," Sirius protested, and belatedly Bellatrix remembered what his animagus form was.

"Terribly sorry," she replied, not sounding sorry at all. "Now help me with this. I'm going to get these answers even if I have to cut their skulls open and pick on their brains."

"Didn't you try that once already?"

"Yes, well, I'll try it _again_. My Lord wants results. And I will not disappoint him. I'm not like those fools, Yaxley, Karkaroff and Mulciber!"

"Can't believe Mulciber's actually teaching brats to duel. In _Durmstrang_ of all places." Bellatrix stood still for a moment, completely quiet, before smiling slowly and turning towards Sirius again. Her dark eyes were a tad too wide for it to be natural, but then again she always looked like that when she was thrilled.

"Your godson," the woman started softly, and Sirius tensed, completely surprised.

"What about him?" he asked warily. How did she even know about Harry?

"He's such a beautiful child," Bellatrix sighed. "His eyes… The first time I saw those eyes of his, I wondered if he could kill like a basilisk."

"Don 't be foolish. And where have _you_ ever seen Harry?"

"A year ago. The Christmas Ball of the Malfoys. That pretentious party with too many hopeful idiots mingling. I saw him, I _looked_ at him, and I saw something pleasant. Sirius… I know you do not believe in Divination, and most of the time, neither do I… but that boy, cousin… there's _something_ about him."

"Harry's a completely ordinary boy, I assure you."

"Then you are blind _and_ stupid."

"Stay away from Harry," Sirius said then, his mouth pressed into a firm line. His fingers were already curling around his wand, and his whole body was tense. Harry catching this woman's attention was not a good thing at all. But what had she seen in him, in all honesty? Harry was quiet, and, _true_ , his green eyes were almost frighteningly eerie, but… there wasn't anything suspicious about him. Sirius had been there since the beginning; he'd _know_ if there was something wrong with Harry.

"If that boy became My Lord's aid," Bellatrix murmured, "he'd follow in my footsteps, that Potter boy. He'll grow up to be so _fine_ , I'm sure, and he'd stand tall and proud beside the Dark Lord. He'd be like me, the most faithful and useful—"

"Bella!" Sirius cut in sharply, glaring at the woman who was smiling in a crazed manner at the cowering Rebels. "Focus on your work and stop daydreaming. Stun them, separate them, make them blind and deaf for all I care. Just stop even thinking about Harry. He's not going to fall victim to your scheming."

"When something is destined," Bellatrix whispered, "you needn't scheme to see it happen."

*

The twenty-seventh of that month was a clear day. The sun reflected brightly from the snow that covered the ground like a white sheet, and the cold seemed to sweep through the thick layers of clothing that Harry had pulled on before leaving. He vaguely remembered the village from when he had arrived with Gildy, but luckily the Three Broomsticks Inn was easily found after a bit of wandering. The Inn was slightly crowded inside, warm and a bit smoky, but clean and welcoming. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face saw Harry and smiled widely at him.

"Hello dear," she said, and her smile dulled a bit when she recognized the sign of Durmstrang on his cloak. "Something to snack on?"

"I have a meeting," Harry replied warily, tugging his hat lower and scarf a bit higher. "Room eleven. At one o'clock. Can you tell me where that room is?"

"You're right on time, then," the woman said before pointing towards a staircase. "Third floor, the first room."

"Thank you," Harry murmured before nervously rushing towards the stairs. Was Tom already there? In all honesty, Harry wished to get a few moments alone for him to organize his thoughts and decide what he should ask about. The Dark Lord, of course, but what _exactly_ about him? And what if Tom decided that it was rude of Harry to pry and cursed him or something? Then again, Harry had a hard time believing that the man would do _that_ to him.

The room was small and tidy. There was a thin white carpet on the floor, white and red striped curtains, and a king-sized bed. Next to the window, there were two chairs and a round table. When Harry entered the room, Tom didn't bother standing up from the chair– he merely gestured for the boy to shut the door behind him and sit down.

"I'm pleased to see you," Tom said easily as Harry pulled off his hat, scarf and coat and sat down. "You've grown taller. Your hair is longer, too."

"And you haven't changed at all," Harry replied. "Er… have you eaten anything?"

"I don't eat outside," Tom said. "But I did order one of my house-elves to bring us something to eat shortly after it sees you arriving, so expect to be fed soon."

"Oh… thank you."

"I was… surprised to receive your letter. I didn't expect you to contact me, much less for you to ask me out like this."

"Look," Harry started, before taking a deep breath and then continuing. "I'm going to be completely honest and go directly to the point. I need to ask you about the Dark Lord."

 _'Well, isn't this a surprise,'_ Tom thought, leaning forward curiously. "Why?"

"His name is Tom Riddle, right," Harry said, and he'd never know how much these words startled the man in front of him. "He… I saw the shield he was awarded when he was still at Hogwarts. I also saw his picture in a yearbook. I just… I want to know if he started from nowhere or if he had an inheritance and a strong family that helped him…"

"The Dark Lord…" This would be the perfect opportunity for Tom to tell Harry who he really was. But did he _want_ to? He wasn't sure what he should tell the boy– should he go along with this or should he put a stop to it? Deciding what to do what hard since Tom had no idea what Harry would _do_ with the information. "You do know that asking about the Dark Lord is potentially dangerous? I happen to know that he does not like the idea of anyone snooping around, asking about him."

"Which is why I'm asking _you_ ," Harry said. "You're the only one I can get these answers from."

"You don't even _know_ me," Tom replied. "Really, Harry, who do you think I am?"

"A Death Eater," Harry said, trying to ignore his own nervousness and the loud beating of his heart. "An important Death Eater. Dangerous, too."

"How adorably vague," Tom sighed and watched silently as a house elf carrying a tray popped into the room and set food and drinks on the table. When the creature was done, it left immediately and Harry and Tom were once again alone.

"If you don't want to tell me about the Dark Lord," Harry started, sounding braver than he felt. "Then can I ask you about yourself?"

"I can tell you," Tom said with a slight smile. "Either about the Dark Lord or myself… But you'll have to answer some questions as well. So how about we ask questions in turns? We can choose between answering honestly or not answering at all– if you choose to not answer, however, I'm allowed to ask another question. Of course, that works the other way around as well."

"Okay," Harry agreed, wondering which one of the numerous questions he had should be asked first. "Will I start or will you?"

"You can start if you wish."

"Okay… um… What's your name?"

"Marvolo," Tom replied easily. It _was_ his name. One of them.

"What a weird name," Harry muttered, staring at the older man's face. All of a sudden Harry felt as if he should… _remember_ something. Those features… "It doesn't really suit you."

"You can keep calling me Tom if you wish," Tom replied. "Why did you choose Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts?"

"Not sure," Harry said. "Felt like a good idea at the time and my parents really recommended it? I'm not sure actually… Um, I was wondering, if people don't even know who the Dark Lord is, then how do they know of his blood status?"

"He deliberately let them know. Keeping that kind of secret hidden would be foolish in case someone else was to ever somehow find out and reveal it to the world through their own words. So the Dark Lord made it known in order to not only erase the threat of exposure but to make it also acceptable to be a half-blood in this society."

"…that makes sense, I guess."

"Of course it does," Tom said dismissively. "Harry, are you healthy? Physically, I mean. Completely healthy?"

"As far as I know, yes," Harry replied, feeling wary. Should he ask why the man wanted to know? But there was so much _else_ he wanted to find out first! "Has… what… is… Is the Dark Lord satisfied with this world?"

"Sorry?" The word escaped Tom's lips before he even realized that he had spoken aloud. For a few long moments, he stared at Harry with something that wasn’t quite _shock_ , watching the boy's face become gradually redder.

"You don't have to answer," Harry hurried to say almost breathlessly. "I mean, I was just… I…"

"It's okay," Tom said, eyes still focused on the boy. "But first, I want a vow of secrecy."

"You're _really_ going to tell me?" Harry asked, sitting straighter. "Really?"

"I see no harm in telling _you_ this," Tom replied, feeling thrilled at this new possibility. "But first– the vow." He put down his cup of tea and reached forward to grab Harry's hand. The man's grip wasn't overly tight, but it was firm enough to make Harry unable to pull away.

"Just a vow of secrecy, right?" Harry said nervously, and the man nodded. Only then did Harry notice that Tom was holding a wand, its tip pointing at their joined hands. While Tom was concentrating on casting the spell, Harry used the few moments to take a look at the man's face.

 _'He's actually pretty handsome,'_ Harry thought. _'I wonder if Gildy would ditch Barty for this guy. Except that Tom would probably kill Gildy instantly.'_ Harry was hard pressed to not flinch in surprise when he felt magic suddenly wrapping itself around him for a split-second before vanishing. Tom's hold on his hand was tighter and the man had turned to stare at Harry's face instead of their still joined hands.

"There's something about you, Harry," Tom whispered, and for some reason Harry felt almost flustered. "I wonder… what you will become. Do you think you'll be a Death Eater, Harry? Bowing before the Dark Lord, finishing the missions he gives you?"

"It's not your turn to ask," Harry replied just as quietly, body tense and heart beating rapidly. Tom blinked once before letting go of Harry's hand and leaning back again.

"Oh yes," the man said, not whispering anymore. "Is the Dark Lord satisfied with the way this world is now? I could have spared us both from this secrecy spell and answered either yes or no, but I cannot resist the temptation of telling you more. The Dark Lord… well, isn't _this_ complicated to answer. The Dark Lord is… well, not _content_ or _pleased_ or even _satisfied_ … He's fine with how the world is now. For him, it could be better."

"But why? The pureblood supremacy has been achieved already!"

"He isn't a pureblood, as you well know. Promoting pureblood supremacy was just an open opportunity."

"But why did he then… Did he… What does he believe in, then? What's his goal? What's his motivation?"

"The Dark Lord," Tom started, "was born in a filthy little Muggle-filled orphanage in London. His Muggle father had abandoned his pure-blood mother as soon as he could, and the woman died as soon as she had named her child. The Dark Lord's father, despite his wealth and prowess in the Muggle society, never once looked for his son, and the Dark Lord grew up right where he was born - in that orphanage. He was completely unaware of his Wizarding heritage 'til the day he received his Hogwart's letter. By then, Tom Riddle had already seen a glimpse of the true face of reality, you could say. How _dirty_ people were inside. How _selfish_ and _greedy_ and _hypocritical_ , no matter how young or old."

"He views all people like that?" Harry asked, feeling his heart flutter in… It wasn't fear. More like disappointment and… sadness?

"Since the beginning, it was clear that the Dark Lord was far more powerful and intelligent than his peers and even many of the people older than him," Tom continued, not replying to Harry. The man was seemingly looking at the cup of tea on the table, but somehow Harry felt as if he didn't really _see_ it. "People realized quickly how outstanding he was, and there were many who wished to befriend him. Make him their ally. But regardless of how they treated him, he knew what they were like inside– _undeserving_. Eventually, the Dark Lord realized that there is no one who is equal to him in any way. He realized how superior he was to everyone else, and the stronger he got, the harder it became to forgive other people's weaknesses and ignorance."

"Then why did he become the Dark Lord if he hates everyone?"

"It wasn't his first option, initially. He… you could say he suffered from extreme apathy. It was a fog around him and only his bouts of rage could momentarily make that fog fade. He studied, became stronger day by day, living in that state of apathy. He didn't feel many emotions, had no particular desires and believed that one day… he'd die out of sheer boredom and depression. Till something happened to turn that emptiness into hatred and make as many people as possible suffer."

"What happened?" Harry asked. While he did feel intrigued, he couldn't help but feel a bit bad for the Dark Lord.

"He found his father and killed him," Tom said, his tone dismissive again. "The man deserved it, I assure you, so don't go all moral on me now. After the death of his father, the Dark Lord decided to take over the Wizarding World of Britain. He didn't care of pureblood supremacy but knew that using that as an excuse, he'd gain powerful followers quickly. And he did. Now he has achieved the position that he wanted– he's safe and he can hurt anyone and everyone he wants. And while to him that is enough, it's not… it'd be inaccurate to say that he's _content_ with the world."

"You mean he started from nothing?" Harry muttered, pressing his hands together in an attempt to stop them from shaking. "He… Did he ever… was he ever _scared_?"

"Whether or not he was ever afraid didn't matter to him. He isn't the type to let fear hold him back," Tom replied.

"I bet he never cried, though."

"He cried plenty. 'Til he got sick of his own tears and decided to grow up and strike back twice as hard. He had many opponents, but only ever one true enemy, and that was mercy."

"He's amazing," Harry whispered. "I—"

"Isn't it my turn to ask a few questions now?" Tom cut in, casting a spell to reheat his tea. "Do you think you could ever serve the Dark Lord, now that you know that he's more than just a… Well, you get the idea."

"I… I think I respect him," Harry started. "It's amazing to have achieved what he has, starting from less than nothing. And… and it makes me _sad_ , to think of him being an orphan. It makes me even sadder to think that he must have had reasons to believe that people are, um, greedy and selfish and all that. I'd be honoured to follow him, one day, but… not as a Death Eater. I… I can't… imagine myself hurting anyone just because they're werewolves or muggles or seemingly less deserving than rich purebloods."

 _'I can't see you as a Death Eater either,'_ Tom admitted to himself, watching the boy think. _'It makes you sad, to think of my life? Ignorant child. He… how can someone be so weak emotionally while having the potential to be so strong magically? I don't understand.'_ "What do you think of war?"

"War is wrong… and should be avoided instead of sought. Who are we to decide who is good and who is evil?"

"It's not about good an evil, you little idiot. It's just us and them, and that's all the difference that matters."

"…I wonder."

"And," Tom said suddenly, "what do you think of dying?"

"What?" Harry's green eyes widened with surprise when he heard this question. He gaped at Tom for a few moments before taking a deep breath and leaning back on his chair. "I… Death is… necessary, I think?"

"Do you think there's life after death? Or that people can be… revived after they're gone?" Tom asked, wondering if he was going to get a clue, finally, as to why the boy, according to Nagini, smelled as if he was sometimes dead, sometimes alive.

"No," Harry replied slowly. "I mean, no one can be revived, and no one should be immortal. But I think that there is certainly something after death, and… I believe that the dead could be, um, contacted. Spoken to, or something."

"Well, there are ghosts," Tom said. "But I wasn't talking about those."

"I wasn't either," Harry blurted. "I, well, the dead… they… go somewhere, you know. After they, er, die? And, um, maybe someone can, uh, occasionally go to where they go and—"

"That's what you do?" Tom cut in, feeling the heat of excitement inside his body. Could it be? This possibility hadn't even crossed his _mind_ , but… seriously. The mere idea of it was simply _outstanding_.

"No!" Harry exclaimed hastily. "I was just wondering. If it's possible. I, I, I th-think I read about it somewhere. Maybe in a story, or something. It just, it's _nothing_."

 _'To g o to the realm of the dead and return,'_ Tom thought _. 'It would explain why he'd smell sometimes dead, I think. But why and how could he have gained such power? Can he do it consciously— He must. I remember that he flickered away during the execution all those months ago. Amazing. Simply amazing. I wonder if he can affect Death itself, or can he only contact the dead? I want to experiment on him…'_ "It's your turn to ask, isn't it?" Tom said suddenly. He had no idea whether or not it was the boy's turn, but that didn't really matter.

"Actually," Harry said, trying to not sound too shaken, "I should be going now. I didn't exactly ask for permission when I sneaked out, so…"

"Write to me, then," Tom told him, not moving from his seat as he watched Harry stand up and head for the door after a few moments of hesitation.

"Goodbye," Harry whispered before slipping out. Tom allowed himself to smile as soon as the door was closed again.

"No, Harr y. Not goodbye," he hissed. "Hello, instead."

Because if Harry really could move between the realms of the living and the dead, then the boy had moved from being an 'interesting little creature' to being a 'potentially invaluable creature'. Even with his moral dilemmas and general naivety. Tom didn't regret telling Harry about himself, even if he had ended up revealing more than originally intended– he had given Harry a lot to think about, and the boy probably didn't even realize that he hadn't asked really anything important about ‘Tom the Death Eater’.

Well, the boy had asked for this meeting, so the next meeting would have to be initiated by Tom.

He couldn't _wait_.

*

"You're leaving tomorrow?"

It was almost ten days after Harry's meeting with Tom, and he was currently in his room, packing his bags. The Christmas holiday was almost over and it was time for Harry to return to Durmstrang. Luna was sitting on his bed, knitting what looked like a really long scarf while trying to not look as disconnected from reality as she felt she was.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Right after breakfast. You'll… take care of yourself, alright? You don't have to put up with anyone pushing you around."

"Of course, Harry."

"If anyone bullies you, you'll go directly to the teachers."

"Of course, Harry."

"Remember to keep your trunk locked to prevent anyone from stealing anything, and don't be afraid of secretly jinxing anyone who mistreats you."

"Of course, Harry," Luna said for the third time, smiling absently. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Luna."

"You'll write, right?" the girl asked. "No one but daddy has ever written to me before."

"I'll write," Harry promised. "And next summer, I'll ask my parents if we can meet or visit each other. We could hang out and stuff."

"That would be lovely," Luna whispered, before smiling dreamily at Harry. "Don't change too much."

"What?" Harry asked, looking up from his trunk. "What do you mean?"

"Hmm, nothing special," Luna replied. "You'll be going on your own?"

"No," Harry said. "Gildy will take me there. I wonder where he is right now." Probably somewhere harassing Crouch. Harry had done his best with trying to distract Gildy from Barty in order to keep on receiving private tutoring on duelling, but at times, he just had to let the glittery blond wizard out of his sight. Unsurprisingly, harassing Crouch was exactly what Gildy was doing at the time.

 _'I wonder if the Dark Lord will forgive me if I killed this freak,'_ Crouch thought, pressing his back against the wall while trying to keep Gildy away with the power of his glare. The Potter boy had managed to distract the flashy wizard from cornering Barty before, but this time, the kid was nowhere to be seen. Probably packing and preparing his escape. Lucky little bastard. "What do you want?"

"You," Gildy replied immediately. "But I know it's too early for you, so I just want to say that I will be leaving the country tomorrow for a few hours."

_'But why are you telling me that!'_

"He doesn't get it, darling," Sybil Trelawney said from the background where she was filling her smoking pipe with something purple. "I think he's immune to your charms."

" _No one_ is immune to my charms."

"Just what the hell do you see when you look in the mirror?" Crouch sneered. Gildy smiled gently, taking a step forward while Crouch tried to somehow push his way through the stone.

"Me looking fabulous," Gildy replied. "Speaking of which, I've wanted to tell you this for a while, sweetheart, but dressed like that you… Well, you're handsome, of course, but you're missing something."

"He's too dull," Sybil said, closing her eyes and enjoying whatever she was smoking.

"Yes," Gildy breathed. "And if you'd just let me _help you_ , we could turn that dull thing you're channelling into something else. Into…"

"Dull-icious, " Sybil stated. Crouch cursed the lack of a backdoor in his own classroom where he was being cornered. Maybe he could just hex these to and call it an accident? No, no. With his luck, his punishment would be nursing them to health.

"Yes, that," Gildy agreed. "But we're getting side tracked here. Darling, I'm going tomorrow to take my young charge– Harry, you've seen him. Cute, but not as cute as me, is heI just wanted to ask if you'd like to come with us. I mean, you could wait here and worry about me, or you could tag along."

"I'd rather not," Crouch said, scowling.

"He's being shy," Sybill declared before focusing again on her smoke pipe.

"I'm not being shy. I'm uninterested."

"I don't think so," Gildy said, his face void of the usual mirth. "I think you're just so deep in denial that even the _suggestion_ of having sex with me scares you. You're trapped by your foolish belief that passion can truly exist only between a man and a woman, and that makes you blind to the possibility of discovering your inner pervert with me. I don't hate women– really, I love them. Platonically. But the mere idea of having sex with a woman confuses me. Where do you grab her? She doesn't have a penis! At least, most of them don't, and a strap-on doesn't count. You just, what, fondle her breasts?"

 _‘How can you love women – platonically or otherwise – and speak of them like that?’_ Crouch thought.

"I think he's properly traumatized now," Sybil said approvingly at the sight of pale and nauseous Crouch. "Our work here is done. He's definitely not going to recover quick enough during your absence for him to get involved with anyone else."

"Excellent," Gildy smiled. "I'll leave tomorrow after breakfast and will be back before lunch. See you then, Barty-darling!" The man's words seemed more like a threat than anything else, and

Crouch couldn't help but feel threatened.

He needed a plan, and he needed it _now_.

Potter would surely like to continue his lessons even after the break. He definitely wouldn't turn down another offer of alliance, would he?

*

His bags had already been sent back to Durmstrang, including a basket full of food that Luna had insisted on preparing for him during breakfast. He was dressed in his usual Durmstrang uniform and he was ready to go… except that he really didn't _want_ _to_.

It wasn't just the issue of having to leave Luna behind. Actually, it was more about having to face Truls. With all the things going on during this holiday Harry had nearly forgotten what he had found out about his Swedish friend. Then again, he could have been mistaken? Truls certainly didn't act like Gildy in any way, and he didn't look like he was in love or anything. Maybe he was just being friendly?

And even if he wasn't, Harry didn't want to confront him about the maybe-feelings that could be a potential source of trouble. Would it be terribly rude if Harry just ignored them? As long as Truls didn't _confess_ to him or anything, everything would be fine, right?

"I'll see you in a few months again, Harry," Gildy said when they had finally reached the apartment complex where Harry and his year mates lived. "Take care, darling. And do wear the lovely boots I gave you."

"They're too big for me," Harry said. "Anyway, just go. Thank you for escorting me, but, uh, I'm sure you already miss Professor Crouch so—"

"Don't worry," Gildy said dismissively. "I made sure that he won't be hooking up with anyone else anytime soon."

"…" _'Poor Crouch.'_ "Bye." Harry didn't start moving towards his flat 'til he made sure that Gildy had indeed left. Only then did he turn his back to the portkey-point and hurry inside– it was cold, after all. Had his friends arrived already? Surely at least some of them?

 _'Oh well,'_ Harry thought while shrugging off his coat and proceeding to light a fire in the fireplace. _'Tomorrow morning will, without a doubt, start with the homeroom hour so I'll see all of them then.'_ He could enjoy his day alone, reading a book. Perhaps he could take a look at that animagus book Sirius had sent him?

That's what Harry did. He sat in his flat, focusing on the rather fascinating book while occasionally snacking on the food Luna had given him. And while he did hear when some of his friends arrived, he remained in his flat, completely unaware of the fact that the apartment below his own had been emptied.


	11. Chapter 11

The following day was bright, clear, and cold. Fresh snow was covering the grounds outside, and the mere idea of going out there made Harry shiver and pull on another shirt just in case. When he finally left to go to the homeroom class, he bumped into Filippa in front of the apartment complex.

"Darling!" the girl exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. "Looking good, Harry. How are you?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied with a smile, hugging her back before stepping away to take a good look at her. "And you?"

"Simply fabulous," Filippa said. "I thought about dropping by your place yesterday, but by the time I had exchanged news and gossip with Heidi and Petronella, it was simply too late."

"It's okay," Harry assured her as the two started to walk again together towards the classroom. "Besides, we'll all get to see each other now anyway."

"Yeah, in this Death Eater factory," Filippa muttered, and Harry was surprised to hear the tone of her voice.

"You disapprove?" he asked curiously.

"I spent Christmas with my family in Italy," Filippa replied quietly. "And while we weren't involved in any of the battles– since none of them took place anywhere near us– we still got the news, you know. So many _die_ , Harry, and for what exactly? I can't help but remember what Professor Dietmar told us when we started studying here… I don't want to be hated and feared, Harry. I… I just… _Please_ don't tell anyone. I know I shouldn't be like this…"

"On the contrary," Harry told her firmly, "I agree with you– these wars _are_ pointless. They're nothing but the suicide of the Wizarding World masked as a struggle between what people like to call right and wrong."

"Don't tell the others, though," Filippa whispered right before they reached the classroom. "They wouldn't agree. Especially the likes of Clemens and Petronella. I know that Lorenzo is pretty relaxed about that stuff, and Björn only hates poor people. I'm not sure about Heidi and Nikolai, though. But just in case, let's keep this a secret– we could get into trouble if someone finds out."

"Don't worry," Harry assured her and sat down on his usual seat. He and Filippa were the first ones to arrive, and as usual she took the seat in front of Harry instead of the one next to him. That seat belonged to Truls. Speaking of whom… "Hey, I think I realized something during the break, but I need your confirmation about it."

"Hmm?"

"About Truls."

"Oh!" Filippa's expression brightened suddenly as she turned to look at Harry with a grin on her face. "Finally figured it out, did you?"

"He likes me," Harry whispered, unable to not blush at the admission. "What should I _do_?"

"Do you like him?" Filippa asked quietly, and Harry shrugged.

"He's a friend," Harry said. "Like you and the others. Sure, he's sort of my best friend, but I haven't really thought about liking _anyone_ that way."

"Liking isn't something you can really _decide_ to do or stop doing," Filippa said. "Give it time. Hi, Heidi! Hi, Nikolai!" Harry hadn't even heard when his other classmates had entered the classroom, and when he looked at Nikolai he couldn't help but remember what he knew about the guy. Harry didn't have the time to focus on those thoughts, though, since Truls arrived soon after.

 _'It's not that he's not good-looking,'_ Harry thought. Truls seemed to have grown quickly in a short amount of time and was most likely the tallest one in their class now. His curly blonde hair was well groomed, and his eyes were very, _very_ blue. But did Harry like him? Somehow, the boy couldn't help but feel that even if he was aware of someone being handsome or beautiful… it just didn't _click_. It didn't make him feel one way or another, and Harry couldn't even comprehend why anyone would develop feelings for _him_ , for Harry.

"Students," Professor Dietmar said, entering the classroom, "take your seats and be silent; there is something important I must tell you."

 _'Oh dear,'_ Harry thought _. 'I wonder what kind of news we'll be getting.'_ The students did as told, sitting quietly and nervously, wondering if they were in trouble for some reason.

"As you can see," Professor Dietmar started, "one of your classmates isn't here. Lorenzo Tancredi was killed during the Christmas break."

It took Harry a few seconds to understand what the man was saying. When he finally did, he felt numb. Of all the things he had expected to hear, _this_ wasn't it.

"What!" Filippa shrieked. "How? Why?" Petronella, who was sitting next to her, immediately wrapped her arms around the girl to comfort her.

"This is ridiculous," Jakob muttered with disbelief, turning to look at the other students present, as if to make sure that Lorenzo wasn't there. Jakob's face was very pale and he looked much thinner than when Harry had seen him last time.

"Mr. Lorenzo's family lived in Rome and were, unfortunately, caught in the crossfire of the battles between our troops and the Rebels," Professor Dietmar explained, and as far as Harry could see, the man didn't appear to be particularly concerned or sad. "This is a very unfortunate incident, but it shall not affect your schedules in any shape or form. I must urge you to push it from your minds and focus on what is relevant– your studies here."

"One of our friends _died_ ," Heidi said, her tearful voice not masking her anger. "And you expect us to just… go on as if it didn't happen? As if Lorenzo never existed?"

"Every single one of us will die," Professor Dietmar said, his voice just as monotonous as it had always been, "one way or another. Some of us could die fighting. Some of us could die in accidents. Some of us could end up getting murdered. Some of us could die of old age. Some of us could die of illness. One way or another, Miss Albin, everyone will die."

"But—!"

"This is your future," the man continued, looking at the nine students in the classroom. "You're here to be trained to _survive_ situations such as the one your friend died in. You're going to kill people or get killed for being too weak to succeed in that. Reality– _this world_ – is brutal. It will not offer you sympathy, and it will not be affected by your death and sorrows. In the big picture, none of us is significant. A hundred years from now, we might as well have never even existed."

"But you can't expect us to be so jaded from the get go," Heidi protested. "He's—"

"Was."

"—our friend!"

"I’ve said this already, but it bears repeating: we all die. There is no happy ending; there is no happily ever after. There is just this: we all die," Professor Dietmar said. "You nine out of all the other people should understand this. You will be elite Death Eaters eventually. _This_ in comparison to what will happen in the future amounts to nothing. The person who is sitting next to you right now could be the next one to die. It's something you'll just have to deal with. You're now dismissed from here– your next lesson, history, will start at ten as usual. You have over half an hour to calm down, accept this situation, and move on." After saying that, the man didn't wait for his students to leave, opting to do so himself first.

"Calm down, calm down," Petronella whispered to the sobbing Filippa, even though Harry could see the tears in her eyes as well. He turned to Truls, and the taller boy gave Harry a strained smile, while reaching for Harry's hand under the table.

"Should we go back to the flats?" Truls asked quietly. "Maybe we could all after school gather there and… talk about this. How to get over it. We should… I don't know, have a funeral or something, even if we don't have Lorenzo's body."

"You're right," Harry whispered, letting go of Truls's hand and standing up. Filippa also stood up, turned, and threw her arms around Harry, pulling him into a tight hug, sobbing all the while.

"I can't believe this," she gasped between her sobs. "He's dead. He's dead. Lorenzo- our Lorenzo is gone."

"You guys know what it means, that Professor said 'crossfire' and not 'killed by the rebels'," Heidi said, clutching Nikolai's arm.

"They don't know who killed him," Truls said quietly, moving to stand right behind Harry.

"Which one of the rebels, you mean?" Jakob asked, looking almost green.

"No," Clemens replied tiredly. "Whether he was killed by the Rebels or by Death Eaters in the crossfire."

*

Professor Thomas Lyuben looked at the nine glum faces in front of him. He was supposed to start the history lesson, but he knew that it'd be a waste of time to talk to this bunch as long as they were distracted by the death of their classmate.

"This is what war does," Lyuben said, catching the attention of his students. "It kills. Freeing countries, promoting causes, conquering places– all those are side-effects that might or might not happen as a result. But the only certainty of war is death. And as long as this war against the Rebels goes on, the more you'll have to face the deaths of people you know and care about."

"Is this war _necessary_?" Filippa asked with sudden anger.

"All wars serve a purpose," Lyuben replied. "Even if it's not the purpose they were meant to serve. Some say that certain wars are unavoidable because they were meant to happen. Because their consequences must come around. For example… the Salem witch trials. They were _terrible_ , tragic and unforgivable… and they led to the creation of the law separating Muggles and us. Now tell me– where's the benefit in what happened? Why is it good that that particular event happened at that particular time?" The man waited for a few moments, but none of his students seemed to know the answer. They did, however, look much more focused than before.

"What's the only area wherein Muggles have improved more than us?" Professor Lyuben asked softly. "Weapons! If they had decided to develop their weapons before attacking us, then who's to say what could have happened to us? The Rebels seem unable to believe that Muggles are vicious—"

"Humans," Harry found himself saying. "They're humans. There are all kinds of humans with different personalities. The good and the bad. The kind and the vicious. The stupid, the smart, the hard-working, the evil… Whether or not someone has magic does not contribute to their intelligence, I think."

"So you're saying that Muggles are like us?" Clemens asked sharply, and for the first time, Harry sensed hostility from him.

"I don't think that's what Harry meant," Truls said quickly, preventing Harry from replying. "Intellectually, Muggles can be just as intelligent as some witches and wizards, so we should be careful. Especially since Muggles have their own advanced weapons now." Harry knew that Truls had just saved him from a very awkward situation– he hadn't meant to reveal his thoughts regarding Muggles. The words had just slipped out. Merlin, how could he have been so careless?

"Yeah," Harry lied, feeling uneasy and troubled. "That's what I meant."

"Treat the death of your comrade like a lesson," Professor Lyuben advised. "The war raging in Italy will spread soon, and if it ever was to reach England, then all of us will certainly be sent to fight. And when we fight, we show no mercy or pity. We fight to _win_. You, as second-year students, are still very sheltered. Next year, however, we'll be focusing on the current goings of the Wizarding World, the political environment and how our history led up to it. In Divination next year you'll be taught to look for signs of disaster and death, and as far as I know, even your Dark Arts lessons will finally advance from theoretic to practical. You are being prepared to fight in a war. You're elite. You're chosen."

"So we should just… forget about Lorenzo?" Petronella asked with disbelief. "That he died?"

"One day, we'll run out of tomorrows. Every single one of us," Professor Lyuben said, before sighing and reopening his book. "Now, let's focus on what's relevant. Chapter twenty-seven. The Harpy Wars. Calling them Harpy Wars is slightly inaccurate considering that the enemy consisted of harpies, mermaids and even some veela, but…"

Harry was feeling sick. And cold. And tense. His body was shivering and Truls's hand felt so hot compared to his own. He didn't know what to think, what to feel, what to do. He hadn't been that close to Lorenzo, but what Professors Dietmar and Lyuben had said _was_ true – they'd have to be aware of the possibility of dying. Of losing friends to death in this war. Whether or not they liked or approved of it was completely irrelevant to the reality going on.

 _'I've never felt this helpless,'_ Harry thought. Never felt this helpless or this _insignificant_. He remembered the execution he had witnessed a year ago. Remembered Albus's words. Remembered that small room he had found before the Christmas Holiday.

 _'I don't have to become a leader if I don't want to,'_ Harry assured himself _. 'But I'll go back there and read those books. There must be something I can do.'_ Hadn't Albus said that Harry could just… influence the thoughts of some people? The opinions? If he could make people see _sense_ , then maybe there'd be hope of some kind. And if he remembered correctly there had even been a book about Occlumency in the collection – it'd be useful to study, especially if he was to hang around Tom a lot.

 _'Then again I heard it's difficult to learn,'_ Harry thought, not even pretending to be listening to what Professor Lyuben was saying. Feeling tired and unmotivated, Harry leaned to rest his head against Truls's shoulder.

"Tired?" Truls whispered, and Harry nodded.

"I'm worried about Filippa," Harry said quietly. "Lorenzo was a very close friend of hers. We need to do something to cheer her up."

"We can talk with Björn– he comes up with pretty good ideas."

"You mean we can buy ideas from Björn? That guy sells anything he has that can be sold."

"He's going to end up rich one day," Truls muttered. "Unless his gambling habits make him bankrupt."

"We have Charms next," Harry said. "Can I sit next to Filippa? I mean… do you mind if I do? I just think that she'd need…" _'Why am I asking his permission anyway? It's not like he's going to feel hurt even if I don't sit next to him every time!'_

"Petronella seems to be taking care of her, though. Maybe after school we could visit her?" Truls suggested.

"Alright," Harry agreed hesitantly. There was… _something_ going on. He was feeling slightly uneasy. Maybe because he had no idea how to comfort Filippa? That could be it. He'd need to look for a book of some kind to give tips on how to comfort people properly. Or maybe he could ask Luna? He'd need to write to her anyway.

"You can lean on me again if you want," Truls whispered, lips almost touching Harry's ear. "I don't mind."

*

The remaining of the school day passed slowly. Harry was very worried but didn't get a chance to talk with Filippa, even though the girl had shot him some desperate looks earlier.

"I'll drop by tonight sometime," Harry had managed to whisper to her during lunch break. "That way, no one will disturb us. Don't worry, Filippa. You're not alone." The girl's sad expression had turned into an almost scarily blank one, and she nodded.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll… I… Thank you."

Before that, however, the nine gathered in Petronella's flat. The girl had insisted on all of them spending a few hours together after dinner.

"We'll all be thinking about it anyway," she said. "We might as well talk about it together."

"What's there to talk about?" Nikolai asked. "I won't lie to you guys– I don't really care. I didn't know the guy well, and I can't see how his death should affect me."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Filippa hissed tearfully.

"He's just being honest," Heidi reminded her. "Either way, we ought to plan a memorial of some kind, right? We can't have an official funeral here, but we can do something."

"Which one of us will die next, I wonder," Jakob suddenly muttered. "Will we forget those who die?"

"Never," Filippa snapped. " _I_ don't forget my friends."

"You heard what the professors said," Clemens said. "We're going to be _Death Eaters_ , Filippa! Not some fucking _Peacekeepers_! What if, one day, we end up in a situation where we have to kill a friend to save someone else? Or… or that you'd have to kill someone you _know_ because if you let them live, they'll end up leaking information? Death happens! It'll happen to all of us!"

"The only way to maximize the probability of survival is to become the strongest," Nikolai said calmly. "Had Lorenzo been strong, he would have been able to fight his way out, I'm sure."

"Bastards," Filippa said darkly. "You two utter bastards."

"No need for name-calling," Heidi sighed, standing up. "It really seems that we're all too emotional to talk about this right now. It was nice of you to invite us here, Nella, but maybe we should talk about this tomorrow."

"Indeed," Nikolai agreed, standing up as well. Harry was mute with shock– he hadn't expected such lack of… empathy? Compassion? Sorrow?– from these people he had thought of as friends. Then again, hadn't he already known that something was wrong with Nikolai?

"See you tomorrow," Clemens said before leaving as well. The door had barely swung shut behind him before Filippa burst into tears. Petronella was quick to move and wrap her arms around the Italian girl.

"I see how it is," Jakob muttered, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the armrest of the couch. "When we're gone, we're gone."

"I'm surprised, though," Björn said. "Not that I expected any genuine compassion, really. I didn't think that they'd be so bold about it, though."

"If only closed minds came with closed mouths," Harry sighed, before reaching to touch Filippa's shoulder gently, unsure of what to say. "We won't forget him. We definitely won't. Not him. None of us. We won't forget each other, no matter what happens. Not just Lorenzo. I'll never forget you or Truls or Jakob or Björn or Petronella either. I won't forget Nikolai, Heidi or Clemens regardless of how they act."

"Harry's right," Petronella hurried to agree. "There are ten of us. And as long as we remember that, there will forever be ten of us, no matter what happens."

"We'll have a tombstone set for him somewhere," Truls promised. "We'll look for a good place and make it worthy of him."

"You look exhausted, Filippa," Björn said. "How about we plan the memorial later? You try to sleep a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah," Filippa replied, although it was clear that she didn't think that she'd be able to sleep. Jakob, whose flat was the nearest one to Petronella's, offered to walk all the way down to Filippa's flat with them, but Harry declined.

"You look exhausted too," Harry said. "Filippa knows that you care. We all do. But just like we care about her health, we care about yours too." Jakob shot him an appreciative look, before smiling tiredly.

"He was a close friend," the German boy admitted, even though they both knew that Jakob's exhaustion had little to do with that. "Thank you."

Harry ended up being the one to take Filippa all the way to her flat. Then again, she did live right next to him. When they entered the flat, Harry helped her to the couch before gently taking off her shoes and jacket, offering to even make some tea.

"I wonder if he was hurt," Filippa said instead, closing her eyes. "I _need_ to know. He was like a brother to me, you see. Our families knew each other and… I can't _believe_ … I just…" Her whole demeanour was so defeated that Harry felt almost scared. He moved to sit next to her, reaching to hold her hand. He couldn't help but do what his heart told him to, regardless of the risks he knew he was taking.

"Filippa," Harry started. "If… if you promise to not ask me any questions, I can… have access to that information."

"What?" Filippa asked, startled out of her sorrow. Harry was aware of the confusion and bewilderment in her voice and eyes, but he still continued.

"Promise to never ask me about this," Harry demanded. "To never try to find out… and I'll reach the dead to find out what happened to Lorenzo."

"What are you saying?" Filippa asked, wide-eyed. "That… Are you humouring me? Do you know someone who was there? Or are you going to talk to the divination professor or something?"

"No," Harry replied. "I don't need the help of others. I shouldn't even be offering you this, but I don't want to see you so sad. I never had any siblings, but the thought of losing someone I love like that is too painful. If I can bring you any relief… Just promise me to never ask me about it, and to never tell anyone either. Not even Truls. No matter what."

"You're not lying," Filippa whispered, lifting her hand to touch Harry's cheek with her fingertips. " _You're not lying_."

"Give me a week," Harry said. "There are some books I need to read, some decisions I need to make, and some letters I need to send. But I'll find out and I will tell you. I promise."

"You know," Filippa breathed. "I used to think that you'd be the hardest one to approach."

"What?" Harry was genuinely surprised at the admission. "Why?"

"There's something about you, Harry. Something… like a thin, invisible wall. The others can sense it to some degree, but as far as I know, only I am consciously aware of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Filippa."

"Probably," Filippa murmured, and Harry could see that she was almost asleep. He didn't dare to remove her skirt or shirt, but he did pull off her socks, undo her plaits, and carry her to her bed. He was about to leave her bedroom when the girl's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Harry," Filippa said drowsily, staring through the darkness at him. "Can you stop this war?"

Harry stood for a long time, feeling frozen inside. He was tense and afraid and wary. Filippa's even breathing indicated that regardless of what the girl herself had believed– that she wouldn't be able to sleep– she had still managed to do so. Harry couldn't help but remember what Remus Lupin had told him all those months ago–

> _'if you think that both Rebels and Death Eaters are wrong, then talk to the people who are neither. If you don't think that war is the answer, then make people share your opinion. Put your future in good hands, Harry. Your own.'_

When Harry finally left Filippa's flat to return to his own, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have to return to the train station again and have another long talk with Albus.

But before that– tomorrow already– he'd go back to the secret room and take another look at the books there.

*

 _'Stones and trees and rivers as far as the eye can see,'_ James thought gloomily. _'With that stupid Pettigrew hanging around, there's no way I could enjoy the scenery. If only Sirius was here, we could push that bastard of a cliff.'_

James hadn't been able to shake off the feeling of wariness and dread ever since Pettigrew had talked about Harry with him. What the man had said, however, was _true_. As unbelievable as it was, Harry had been thought to be initially a stillborn. And magic _couldn't_ lie about that kind of things. It was no misdiagnosis. Harry had been dead and then _somehow_ came back to life.

Lily and James hadn't known why or how, but they had been so _grateful_ ; their baby was alive despite everything, and for a while, Lily had insisted on calling him her 'boy who lived'. Harry had grown up to be almost like any other child, and James couldn't be prouder of his son.

Harry had, though, had a hard time remembering Lily's name in the beginning– James remembered with amusement the times when Lily h ad tried to teach her son to say her name, only for the little child to insist calling her _Merope_. Where had he even heard that name? There weren’t any Meropes in their lives.

 _'He's going to become a Death Eater,'_ James thought then, remembering the unfortunate, depressing truth. _'I hope that these battles will be done by the time he's expected to take part in any of them. Ah, I wish I could just go back in time to when it was peaceful. Last year was good. I miss Lily and Harry so much—'_

James wondered what his wife was doing. Was she still working in the hospital of Rome? Was she safe? She was scheduled to return back home in the summer, and James couldn't _wait_ to see her. And Harry. But at least he knew that Harry was safe at school.

_'My thoughts are too scattered. I'm getting a headache.'_

"You know, James," Pettigrew said suddenly, walking quicker to keep up with James's steps. "When we started attending Hogwarts, we didn't even know what Death Eaters were. And we used to hate Dark magic so much, didn't we.? And we—"

"Stop saying _we_ ," James interrupted, feeling irritated. "You were a Slytherin, and we never hung out. I hardly remember you anyway."

"How harsh," Peter whined, but somehow James felt as if the man was amused. "Why are you always so cruel to me? When did I offend you? Surely it's not when I mentioned your son—"

"Never," James hissed, reaching for his wand, "mention Harry again. Besides, even if you told anyone about the mistake a nurse made, no one would take it seriously. Stop hanging around me and get lost."

"I can't really do that, James," Peter replied, amusement now clear in his tone. "We needn't talk about your son if that makes you uncomfortable, but I'm still going to spend time with you. We could catch up and exchange news regarding what we have been up to since we graduated, yes?"

"You and I have nothing to talk about," James snarled, hurrying forward. Peter shook his head and sighed.

"You're a fool," Peter muttered, before following the other man slowly. "A poor fool, James Potter."

*

While Sirius liked France, he wasn't particularly fond of Paris. However, that's where his current mission took him to. _'Gauge the atmosphere,'_ he had been told to do. _'See if they feel the war. If they're nervous. If they are hostile towards England. If they're planning an attack.'_ Sirius hated information gathering missions– he'd have to keep low profile, avoid catching attention, not drink much at parties, and basically be focused on work all the time with no chance of a break.

Although he did get the chance to charm French ladies– he just _loved_ French women. How could he not? All they needed to do was _talk_ , letting the French words roll out of their precious mouths, and Sirius would feel the urge to be _very_ friendly towards them.

He couldn't _wait_ to meet yet another Monique or René.

 _'I wonder what James is doing,'_ Sirius thought on this third day of walking through tricky and dark alleyways. _'Bet he's having fun in battle, duelling his worries away. Damn it, I want something to drink._ ' He was grumpy, getting even grumpier, when he almost tripped at the sight of a familiar man begging at the corner of the street.

 _'Should have known that scum like him wouldn't be able to survive even after being helped,'_ Sirius thought with disgust, standing still and almost glaring at the beggar _. 'After all of the help James and Lily offered, and he still ends up in the streets.'_ Sirius was conveniently forgetting about the simple fact that no matter where– not only in England and France– werewolves had no chance of survival on their own. Who'd hire a werewolf? Even if someone hired one, due to the protocols, any small mistake would definitely lead to immediate firing.

The werewolf was, if possible, even thinner than before. Sirius didn't bother to try and remember his name– it didn't matter anyway. The Death Eater did wonder, however, where the man went every full moon– he definitely didn't roam the streets in his savage form, did he? Besides, why was the creature in France anyway?

 _'Either way, none of my business,'_ Sirius then decided, turning away. _'He ruined his life on his own.'_ Surely if the wolf had actually tried a little bit harder, he would have succeeded in adapting to live with civilized human beings. Sirius started walking again, trying to think of something else.

The dirty snow beneath his boots made squelching noises as he walked, and he wondered whether or not there was this kind of snow near Durmstrang. Perhaps they had more snow? Since it was up north and all. Was Harry cold? Maybe Sirius could buy something nice and send it to his godson? He missed the little brat so much. Harry—

_'—would give that wolf another chance. '_

Sirius froze in his tracks with wide-eyed surprise at the thought. It had come out of nowhere, but he knew that it was the truth. Harry would insist on saving Lupin again. Sirius could still remember very clearly the way his godson had acted when the werewolf had been brought to the Potter Manor.

_'The wolf is dangerous. Where would I keep it anyway? Besides, my mission isn't even finished yet!'_

Well, he could restrain the wolf easily. And keep it in one of the rooms of Grimmauld Place– Sirius lived there alone, after all. But _why_? Sure, Harry would be glad, but… Harry wouldn't even need to know that Sirius had seen Lupin at all. Involving a werewolf in his life was simply too risky and troublesome and didn't come with any benefits.

Besides, no matter what _Harry_ would think, Sirius was sure that James and Lily would disapprove.

Not to mention that he really was still dealing with an unfinished mission! He simply didn't _have_ the time to help anyone– surely Harry would understand that?

_'James and Lily don't have to know.'_

He'd have to keep it a secret from everyone. Being branded as a werewolf-sympathizer was just wrong and unacceptable.

_'Only Harry would know.'_

But was it worth it? Sirius didn't _like_ werewolves– they were nothing but a burden to society, and frankly, he wasn't even amongst those who thought of the werewolves as weapons.

_'But it'd make Harry happy. And I'd do anything to make Harry happy.'_

What came to the mission, Sirius could spend a day in England and then return to complete it. The man nodded to himself, turned and strode to where the werewolf still was.

*

> _Leaders need to be aware that communication relies at least as much on how you say things as what you say. By appreciating how easy it is for messages to get distorted and misunderstood, leaders take care to ensure that they communicate effectively, encouraging the behaviour that they intended. Leaders also have to be good– active– listeners, so that they recognize the message behind the words others use._

Harry closed his eyes, yawned, and resisted the urge to throw the book into the fireplace.

It was Wednesday evening, and Harry was in his flat, reading the books he had taken from that secret room. Filippa had dropped by and sat on Harry's couch for a few hours, drinking tea and staring into nothingness while occasionally reaching to hold his hand. When Truls had arrived, Filippa had left.

 _'He keeps looking at me,'_ Harry thought, feeling his concentration falter.

"You look tired," Truls said suddenly. "Maybe you should rest, Harry."

"Maybe," Harry agreed and yawned again. "My head hurts. And shoulders, too."

"You've been very tense lately," Truls sighed, standing up. "Want me to massage your shoulders… and back?"

"Oh God, yes," Harry sighed, setting down the book. "Do I go lie on the couch?"

"I think it's best if you went to lie on your bed," Truls said. "I mean, we don't have any massage oils anyway so the bed won't get messy. Also, chances are that you'll fall asleep at some point."

"I'll go brush my teeth, then," Harry decided, rubbing his eyes and yawning again. "Do I change into my pyjama?"

"Actually…" Truls started after a moment of silence. "It's best if you'd wear just your underwear. If possible." Harry, who was too exhausted to think straight, simply nodded and left the bathroom's door open while he brushed his teeth and undressed. Truls wiped his sweaty palms and took a few deep breaths to calm down. He was just going to give Harry a massage. Massages were good, and it'd help his best friend relax. There was nothing weird about giving someone a massage.

 _'I need to stop thinking about this,'_ Truls thought, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "Is your bed empty?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. He didn't bother folding the clothes he had been wearing, leaving them on the floor of his bedroom instead while he went to lie on the bed. "This good?"

"Lie on your stomach," Truls instructed before climbing on the bed as well. His fingertips were toughing the back of Harry's right thigh lightly, making the dark-haired boy shiver and hide a blush by pressing his face against his pillow.

"Next time, we could do this properly," Truls said, sliding his palms down Harry's leg, applying slight pressure. "With oils and all. Would work better. I can bring some oils and leave them here, if you want. I think Filippa has many, and if she's against parting with one bottle, I'm sure she could at least tell us from where to buy some."

"Mm-hm." Truls almost chuckled at Harry's tired response but then opted to just focus on what he was doing. Harry's legs were smooth, and he didn't seem to have any scars. Truls kneaded the right leg, avoided the back of the knee as he should, and spent quite a while massaging Harry's thighs. Harry's skin was warm and smooth against Truls's fingers, and the boy barely managed to resist the strange urge to press a kiss on Harry's thigh.

"We haven't played Quidditch in ages, have we?" Truls asked, not expecting an answer. When he moved to the other side of the bed from where he could get a better access to massage Harry's left leg as he had done to the right, he saw that Harry's eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open.

 _'Is he sleeping already?'_ Truls thought with surprise, leaning closer to take a good look at the dark-haired boy's face. "You awake?"

"Mm," Harry replied, and Truls returned to massaging the left leg. Harry opened his eyes and sleepily watched the Swedish boy whose face was serious with concentration. Truls was unaware of being watched as he was wondering which position he should take to be able to massage Harry's back properly. A few minutes later, he ended up sitting on Harry's thighs, his front pressed against Harry's arse, trying to not even think about anything remotely forbidden.

Again, Truls pressed his palms against the Harry's back, starting from the bottom and kneading slowly and smoothly upwards, all the way to the shoulders. He did it twice before moving off and wondering whether or not he should continue– being in that position while actually facing Harry was just… Truls _knew_ that he liked Harry, _of course_ , and he really _did_ want to be as close to the other boy as possible… but the strange feelings inside his own body were almost frightening.

Maybe he should stop the massage and just have a nap?

Harry closed his eyes, feeling so very relaxed and sleepy. Truls wasn't massaging him anymore– the other boy's touch was now feather-light and left a strange, tingling sensation on Harry's skin. Harry yawned yet again, and a s soon as he felt Truls's body lie down next to his own, he pressed closer, seeking comfort and warmth. Truls let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around his best friend.

"I'll always be here for you," Truls whispered, running his fingers through Harry's dark hair. "Sweet dreams, Harry."

*

Remus Lupin looked up when he saw an unfamiliar pair of boots in front of him. The boots, he thought, looked expensive. The boots, he noticed, were also being worn by someone who was sneering down at him. The man– tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed and relatively handsome– was very familiar, and it didn't take long for Remus to remember who he was– Sirius Black.

"Werewolf," Black said, "stand up." Remus, unsure of what was going on, shakily did as told. He knew that he looked extremely unflattering, but he was starving, felt cold, and hadn't had a chance to wash up for _days_.

"Yes?"

"You're the one James and Lily tried to help, aren't you? What are you doing here? Why did you fail?" Black's words were blunt but also honestly confused. Remus refrained from sighing tiredly, opting to answer instead.

"I did get a job," he started quietly. "But since the owner knew that I'm… what I am, he fired me as soon as he could find an excuse to do so. I spent a few months travelling, looking for a job, but… no one would hire me."

"And so you ended up begging here," Black muttered with clear disgust. "Where do you go during full moon?"

 _'Why do you ask? It's not like you care,'_ Remus thought but didn't say it, knowing that Black could kill him for such insolence. "There's an abandoned basement not too far from here. I lock myself down there a few hours before I… transform."

"You're going to come with me," Black said suddenly, surprising the werewolf. "I won't lie to you– I do not think that creatures like you should be allowed to roam freely. But… I remember how Harry acted towards you, and that is the only reason why I am going to help you. If you stay here, you'll die. Either you'll freeze to death or die of starvation or someone will half-accidentally curse you to an early grave."

"That child," Remus muttered, remembering the young boy who had treated him like an equal– something that Remus hadn't experienced in years. "Is he well?"

"You're not permitted to ask me any questions," Black snarled, turning away. "Come on, follow. And don't think that I'll let you stay in a room with Harry alone. I just know that my godson has been feeling down lately– he even had to spend Christmas alone!– and considering his lack of hostility towards you, he'd probably like to see you again."

"He's a fine young man," Remus said, following the Pureblood. "Wise beyond his years."

"Idealistic and naïve, actually," Black muttered. "But he's the most precious and amazing child in the whole world. Now shut up. I don't want to hear your voice, wolf."

In all honesty, Remus thought about refusing to go with Black– for all he knew, Black could be planning on just killing him somewhere or torturing him and using his body for research or potions. But why would the man bother claiming otherwise if he wanted to hurt Remus? It's not like Remus would be able to defend himself if Black was to stun him and portkey him away.

He couldn't shrug off the feeling of being considered as a pet, though. Black's attitude reminded Remus of a parent reluctantly buying a puppy to their child. And yet, that attitude was far better than the other alternatives.

"When we arrive at Grimmauld Place," Black started. "You'll vow to never harm Harry and never betray him. Oh Merlin, why am I even doing this?"

"You," Remus said, voicing his thoughts before even realizing it, "do not understand. Do you think that my condition makes me feel—"

"I said I don't want to hear your voice," Sirius snarled. "You're nothing but a monster that needs to be trained."

"You should talk to him," Remus continued calmly, not bothering to even try and dodge the sharp slap he received. "Your godson. It seems he has far more wisdom than you."

"All the months before Harry's summer break," Sirius said. "It seems I really need them to train you properly."

*

When Harry woke up early next morning, Truls was gone. The clothes Harry had thrown carelessly on the floor were now folded neatly on the chair. It was still dark, and Harry could hardly believe his eyes when he turned to the clock he had on the table and saw that it was only half past five in the morning– his first lesson wouldn't start till eight. And yet, Harry felt far more awake and far less tired than he had in ages.

 _'How can a simple massage affect me so much?'_ Harry wondered, sitting up. He turned to look at the empty spot on his bed where Truls had been lying down hours earlier _. 'I wonder if he wanted to kiss me at any point.'_ Didn't people who liked other people want to kiss them, after all? Did Truls even _know_ how to kiss? Harry only had a vague idea– what if everyone else knew how to kiss but Harry was the only ignorant one?

 _'Why am I even thinking about this?'_ the boy then thought, standing up _. 'I'll go shower and eat some breakfast.'_ And then, perhaps he'd refocus on those books he had brought. Harry also knew that he needed some kind of a plan if he wanted to go to the train station and hopefully meet Lorenzo.

All the previous times when Harry had ended up at the train station due to an accident of some kind, he had only been able to see Albus. Harry did, however, remember twice when he had had a strange sliding sensation and ended up at the train station for an instant, during which he was able to see the crowd– the dead. He was sure of it! Which meant that even if he knocked himself out, he wouldn't be able to find Lorenzo anyway… and therefore, he'd have to figure out a way to go there _intentionally_.

 _'But what if Lorenzo has already boarded the train?'_ Harry realized, entering his bathroom to take a quick shower. _'I have no idea how quickly they board a train. Surely a week is too long of a time to wait! But then again, Albus didn't seem to be aware of the time passing at all… I wonder if the time is still somehow there? Is that even possible?'_

Most importantly, Harry was worried about whether or not he'd be able to keep his promise to Filippa. What would he tell her if he failed?

 _'I have to figure out how to get there pretty soon,'_ Harry decided, reaching for the shampoo. _'I don't recall using any magic though, so maybe it's all just concentration?'_ Was it really that simple? Besides, Harry knew that, during the execution, he had just wanted to _vanish_ without thinking of any particular place.

"This is giving me a headache," Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes. But as soon as he decided to think about something else, his mind brought up the other annoying topic: kissing.

Was it normal for him to think about kissing? Was it normal to be worried about whether or not he knew how to kiss? He wasn't planning on kissing anyone anytime soon, so why couldn't he stop thinking about it? Was it Truls's fault? How exactly could Harry blame Truls for this– the guy hadn't done anything!

He should really just focus on his plans. Maybe he should make a list of the important things he ought to do and not think about anything else? Yeah, that could work.

After his shower, Harry made some porridge, and by the time he was done, it was barely five past six. Still too early for him to go to the school building, but perhaps he could take a walk? The sun hadn't even risen yet, and it probably wouldn't rise for at least another hour. If Harry took his wand, surely he'd be safe enough outside. Besides, the area was shielded from outsiders.

Harry prepared his schoolbooks, put them into his bag alongside with quills and parchment, and left the bag on the couch– he'd later drop by to get it before going to class. He put on his uniform and the heavy coat and didn't forget to wrap a scarf around his neck and wear his gloves before going out.

The temperature outside was colder than Harry had thought it would be. The stars were hidden somewhere behind the clouds between him and the dark sky. The snow beneath his feet was fresh and a few inches deep– it wasn't hard to walk on, but Harry knew that, sometimes, this deceptively beautiful snow hid ice right beneath it. A careless step could make him fall down.

 _'Aren't most things in life like that?'_ Harry thought. _'Some of them, at least.'_

"I'm confused," Harry said aloud, then, as he walked further away from the apartment complex. "I… am not sure about what I should do. I think I know, but…" The boy's voice got quieter and quieter until he fell silent and stopped walking. If the possibility of him reaching the train station intentionally depended on his willpower, then he should focus on that. Harry knew that whatever willpower he had was being hindered by the confusion he found himself constantly plagued by. To get rid of that confusion, he'd need to… be organized.

He _really_ needed to make a list of things he'd have to do.

Talk with Albus. Talk with Tom. Write to Luna. Write to his mother. Write to his father. Ask about Sirius, too, while he was at it. Find out how Lorenzo died. Learn how to kiss, in order to avoid future humiliation. Do something about his resolution.

 _'There's a lot more I have to do,'_ Harry thought. _'I'll add to the list whenever I remember something new.'_

To be more confident, he'd have to be more… daring, right? Bolder. Willing to take risks. But how could he do that? What could he be bold about without really risking anything serious?

 _'That kissing thing,'_ Harry decided _. 'It's the first step.'_

And he knew exactly who to ask for help.

*

> _"You mean he started from nothing? He… Did he ever… was he ever scared?"_

Tom was used to thinking a lot. He was used to having something constantly in his mind. But he wasn't used to being unable to _control_ his thoughts like this. It just didn't happen – he usually could just shove even the most persistent thoughts to some corner of his mind with the help of Occlumency. And yet… he couldn't forget Harry's words.

The boy was strange.

But was he _dangerous_? Tom didn't think so– Harry didn't _seem_ like the type to intentionally do anything risky. But he also seemed to be very…morally correct. What if the brat decided, one day, to spread those ideas of his? What if he gave Tom no choice but to erase him? Should Tom just go ahead with that? Tom knew that if it ever came down to it, he could kill Harry. But _would_ he? Perhaps he'll never know unless he ended up in a situation like that.

The problem with being bored most of the time was that when something interesting finally appeared, he'd find himself reluctant to let it go… no matter how risky it could be.

> _"He's amazing. I… I think I respect him."_

The admiration Lord Voldemort had gotten from thousands, if not millions, of people worldwide was flattering– he wasn't going to deny that. But there was still _something_ special about the admiration when the source was Harry. Perhaps because Harry's worth in Tom's eyes was different from the worth of everyone else? Why would one little boy– no matter how interesting– become so important to him?

Tom could claim that Harry's importance was solely because of the boy's possible connection with the dead… but he knew that that wasn't exactly it. And it wasn't just because the boy was entertaining either.

In all honesty, it was starting to get on Tom's nerves how much he thought about Harry. It wasn't like him to obsess about people like this. Tom had considered his fascination to be some kind of attraction but had then dismissed the idea– Harry was… much too young.

Tom had never really been emotionally attracted to anyone, and whatever sexual attraction he had felt had been short-lived. People served many purposes, but none of those purposes had anything to do with actual attachment. And yet… Harry wasn't exactly _useful_. Not yet, at least.

> _"It's amazing to have achieved what he has, starting from less than nothing. And… and it makes me sad, to think of him being an orphan. It makes me even sadder to think that he must have had reasons to believe that people are, um, greedy and selfish and all that."_

What kind of face will Harry make when he finds out that his Tom is the Dark Lord? Tom had tried to tell the boy before so surely the brat would have no right to accuse him of lying. Would he be angry? Calm? Accepting? In denial?

Maybe Tom should reveal himself to Harry at a certain moment, see the reaction, obliviate the boy, and do it again at a different time? Would Harry have different reactions? Maybe he could experiment a little bit? Well, not really. He didn't want to take the risk of making the boy intellectually damaged, somehow. That'd ruin the fun.

The boy was, as far as Tom knew, academically pretty good. Did he stumble upon the information regarding contacting the dead during his studies in Durmstrang? But what the _hell_ had the boy been searching for to find that kind of— no, it was impossible. If Harry didn't acquire the information from a book or learn the skill from a teacher– which was very unlikely anyway– then that meant that the boy was _born_ with this ability.

But what kind of…heritage could do grant this gift? Did one of his parents have it? No, Tom had already researched the Potter family and found nothing out of ordinary there. Had he missed something? Surely not. Then again, he hadn't really been looking for this either.

"Not that I even know what exactly 'this' is," Tom muttered sullenly. Should he ask the boy directly?

> _"I'd be honoured to follow him, one day, but… not as a Death Eater. I… I can't… imagine myself hurting anyone just because they're werewolves or muggles or seemingly less deserving than rich purebloods._

What would Harry look like five years in the future? He'd be seventeen. Still growing up. What would his magic feel like, then? Will his delicate features ever harden or would the boy look so… fragile even when he grows older? He wouldn't be a good Death Eater, though. Harry's moral compass seemed to be very much active, and while Tom didn't understand the point, he didn't think that Harry would be giving up on his views. The boy, despite his young age, seemed to be very aware of his own opinions.

Maybe associating with the dead had made him like that?

If the boy did not become a Death Eater, then what? He wouldn't be able to keep Harry as an advisor either– the boy would probably insist on saving kittens and adopting orphans and stopping wars with poetry or some other nonsense like that. Letting the boy live his life as a regular citizen was out of question as well– education in Durmstrang shouldn't be wasted like that.

> _"I mean, no one can be revived, and no one should be immortal. But I think that there is certainly something after death, and… I believe that the dead could be, um, contacted. Spoken to, or something."_

Harry would have to learn how to lie. The boy had been pathetic at it when he denied his abilities. But were Harry's powers limited to speaking with the dead or could he actually control them somehow? Tom wanted the information, and he did think about using Legilimency after all, but what risks would _that_ include? If Harry's abilities gave him some kind of immunity or defence against mental attacks, then there could be some damage waiting to be unleashed on whoever dared to try and intrude.

It was such a pity that powers of that kind were granted to Harry who clearly would never use them the way they were meant to be used.

Tom had already ruled out asking the brat and then obliviating him. Using the Imperius curse wasn't an option either because there was a chance that the boy would remember it afterwards.

Well then, it seemed like Tom would have to do it without magic.

Now, all he needed was an opportunity to get Harry drunk.

*

"I need to talk with you," Harry whispered to Björn on their way towards the last class of the day– Divination. "I need a favour."

"Said something?" Truls asked, turning towards the two. Harry shook his head with an awkward smile on his face.

"Nah, just… I really am not in the mood for Divination of all things."

"Fat lot of good that craft is doing," Filippa snarled. "If you can't predict death, then—"

"Too many people are dying nowadays," Petronella sighed. "It's so sad."

"I want to play Quidditch," Jakob suddenly cut in. "Think we could? After the lesson's over, I mean?"

"Well, we could go fly at least," Truls said. "You sure that you're up to it?"

"Bet you I can fly faster," Clemens claimed, looking at Truls.

"Bet accepted," Björn said quickly, grinning.

"I don't think he was talking to _you_."

"When you talk about bets, you talk to me. I'm joining too."

"If it's a race, I guess I won't do it," Jakob said quickly with a slightly troubled expression.

"Can you teach me how to fly?" Filippa asked suddenly, and Harry almost smiled at the way her request made Jakob's expression turn into a happier one.

"Sure!"

"You'll be joining us, Harry?"

"I'll watch," Harry said. "I've got a book I want to finish, so… I'll leave flying for summer."

And so, less than two hours later, Harry was sitting on a bench wrapped in his warmest coat and reading a book. Jakob was giving Filippa and Petronella instructions nearby, while Clemens, Truls, and Björn were having their race. Heidi and Nikolai had both decided to not venture out, and Harry could understand that– it was a cold day, after all.

 _'Lorenzo should be here with us,'_ Harry thought _. 'He—'_

"Harry Potter," a vaguely familiar voice said, and Harry turned to see Viktor Krum standing awkwardly nearby.

"Viktor Krum," Harry said, smiling. "Hi. Want to sit?"

"Ah, no, I was… I'm actually on my way to, ah, the other Quidditch pitch," Krum stammered. "W-we're practicing. I just wanted to, ah, ask if you're alright. I mean…"

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry assured the endearingly awkward upperclassman. "Really, no permanent damage of any kind. Thank you for asking, though. I really appreciate it."

"I'm glad," Krum sighed, his dark eyes squinting at Harry's classmates, particularly the three boys racing. "Why don't you go there and fly with them?"

"I'm not in the mood, really. I'm reading…"

"Do you mind if I ask… what are you reading?"

"I don't think this book will interest you," Harry admitted. "It's about war."

"War and sports are… same paintings, in different frames," Viktor said. "Enemies, strategies, attacks and defences."

"You're right,” Harry said thoughtfully, wondering if there were any useful books he had overlooked simply because they didn’t directly address what he wished to learn about. "I've been so… blind and careless."

"Is something wrong?" Krum asked, and Harry shook his head. They could hear a male voice calling Krum from a distance.

"On the contrary," the boy replied, "you've just solved a problem for me. Thank you."

"I'm not sure what I did, but you're welcome," Krum said, offered a tiny– almost unnoticeable– smile, before leaving. Harry stared down at the pages of his book, thinking about his mistake. Krum had barely left when Harry noticed Björn walking towards him.

"The other two are still racing," Björn said, sitting next to Harry. "You wanted to talk about something?"

"Uh, yeah," Harry muttered, flushing. "But first, promise me that you'll tell no one."

"Cross my heart," Björn assured him, leaning closer. "What is it that you need my help with?"

"Can you," Harry started, voice hesitant and wary, "can you teach me how to kiss?"

" _Me_? Why not ask Truls?"

"Because he likes me. I just want to learn how to kiss. I don't want any… you know, uh…"

"I get it," Björn said after thinking for a few minutes. "I can do it. Our friendship will not turn awkward because of this, right?"

"Oh, absolutely not. Don't worry," Harry hurried to say. "We would have to keep this a secret though."

" _Yeah_ , of course."

"Do _you_ know how to kiss?"

"Not really, no. Never done it before," Björn admitted. "I don't think others know either, but you've brought up a good point. What if I really _should_ know how to kiss?"

"The others don't know?"

"Hmm, Nikolai and Heidi maybe, but definitely not the rest of them."

"Oh well, I won't stress about this if we aren't supposed to even know yet," Harry sighed with relief, closing his book and standing up to leave. If the others didn't know how to kiss, then there was no shame in him not knowing either. He wouldn't have to feel worried about this issue.

"Wait!" Björn called. "For five galleons an hour, I'll agree to be your practice partner!"

"What? Doesn't that make you feel like a… well, you know?" Harry asked with genuine astonishment, sitting down again. "And no, forget about it."

"Fine, I'll do it for free," Björn said. "I'm convinced that I really need to know how to kiss. What if Mette snuck into my flat some night—"

"No, I don't think that will happen. Ever."

"It will," Björn said confidently. "I'll become the richest man on earth, Harry. I don't care how. And some women can't resist rich men. But yeah, you in or out? Don't tell me you're a chicken."

"Of course I'm not; I'm the one whose idea this is in the first place," Harry sighed. "Where and when? And if you laugh at me, I'll just…"

"I get it. How about your flat after curfew today? Just make sure that Truls won't be there."

"All right," Harry said. He would have, perhaps, said something else as well… but the sight of Jakob suddenly collapsing made both him and Björn leave their seats and rush towards the boy.


	12. Chapter 12

"He'll be alright, won't he?" Filippa asked, clutching Jakob's hand. The boy was pale and barely conscious on the hospital bed. Nurse Ester's face was serious as she cast a few spells before turning to the students gathered there.

"You might as well leave," she said firmly. "He'll need quite a bit of rest."

"What's wrong with him?" Clemens asked. "He was just _fine_. He couldn't have caught a cold, could he? Or is it the same cold he had since before Christmas break?"

"You mean you didn't figure it out yet?" Filippa hissed. "This isn't some _cold_ —"

"Hey!" Harry cut in sharply, sounding ruder than he had intended. "If Jakob wants to tell us at some point, he will."

"You mean you _knew_?" Petronella asked, bewildered. "That he has something serious, I mean.

"I thought it was anaemia or something," Björn said.

"Well, he never outright _told_ me anything," Harry replied truthfully to Petronella. "I just sort of… figured it out."

"Figured it out," Clemens repeated. Harry, who didn't like the tone the other boy was using, held back a grimace.

"Exactly that," he said.

"When will he wake up?" Filippa asked.

"Not for a few hours, at least," Nurse Ester replied. "Now, children, _out_ , all of you. You can drop by tomorrow if you insist. But now– out!"

 _'I wonder how serious it truly is,'_ Harry thought, casting one last glance at Jakob's unmoving form before following his friends out of the hospital wing. _'I hope it can be cured soon. I bet it's no fun to be bedridden. Maybe it really is anaemia like Björn said? Does anaemia cause fainting spells like that?'_

"You look worried," Truls said, and Harry looked up with a frown still on his face.

"I am," he admitted. "I just hope that he'll eventually be alright again."

"Soon, preferably," Clemens said. "If he ends up falling behind, who knows what will happen. Maybe they'll force him to withdraw from Durmstrang or transfer or something."

"No!" Filippa exclaimed, appalled. "Don't even _say_ that!"

"It's a possibility," Clemens insisted. "Nobody wants it, of course, but—"

"We can tutor Jakob," Björn cut in. "He won't fall behind if we all help him. He won't go to the classrooms, but we'll take his homework to him and help him as well as we can. If we do our homework at the hospital wing with him, I'm sure he won't fall behind."

"Not sure if that will work. I sort of got the impression that we aren't supposed to rely on each other _too_ much,” Clemens said. “Besides, think about _why_ we're in this school. It's not just to get high grades and some office job."

"I'm afraid Clemens is right," Truls agreed reluctantly. "Besides, if Jakob is seriously ill, then… I mean, physical fitness _is_ required…"

Harry stopped walking then, feeling uneasy. He watched the backs of his friends as each step they took, took them further away from him. What was going to happen to _them_? The world was changing, and Harry felt as if he was on a Ferris wheel, hanging on to a capsule from the outside, on the verge of falling off to his sorry end.

"Harry," Truls called, snapping the boy out of his thoughts. "You okay? I can carry—"

"I'm coming," Harry cut in and hurried after his friends.

*

What Sirius hated about that werewolf the most was that the creature looked so… _harmless_. It was quiet, didn't eat much, didn't spit insults or threats, didn't even _growl_. And most appallingly: it claimed to prefer vegetables over red meat. That just didn't… it wasn't… it must have been a lie because Lupin was a _werewolf_ and what kind of werewolf didn't like _meat_?

Not to mention that the thing kept shooting him these exasperated yet _amused_ looks, as if it found him funny!

Sometimes, Sirius wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. Kreacher had fixed the basement to resemble a prison, and even though Sirius allowed Lupin the freedom to walk inside the house– provided that he wouldn't enter certain rooms– the wolf rarely ventured out of its cage. Occasionally to the library and the bathroom, but other than that… it just sat on its bed and read. He came to the kitchen only when told to.

Sirius spent most of the time in France anyway, using the Floo to travel between the countries. However, the time period of the mission eventually ended, and Sirius was once more stuck in England waiting for the next mission.

"You owe Harry for this, you know," Sirius once said, watching Lupin drink a cup of coffee. "If it hadn't been for him, I would have just left you there."

"There must be some good in you too, though," Lupin replied quietly, not looking up from his drink. "Thank you. Although I'll be sure to thank Harry more sincerely."

"I don't _understand_ you," Sirius huffed. "What is it like, to be a werewolf? Do you dream of ripping people to shreds and eating them raw?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the werewolf replied.

"What is it like, then?"

"Painful." Lupin said that single word and then fell silent. His golden eyes weren't focused on anything in particular, and Sirius wondered what the creature could be thinking about.

"Well, surely cannot be more painful than a Cruciatus, " Sirius said nonchalantly, but then felt strangely cowed when Lupin shot him a _look_. It wasn't even a glare; it just made Sirius feel _stupid_. Like he had said something foolish.

"The full moon is pretty soon," Sirius hurried to continue, trying to regain his superior attitude regardless of how flustered he actually felt. "You'll be locked in the basement, of course."

"Of course."

"Do you… do you need to be fed when you're, eh, under the influence of… of…"

"No," Remus said flatly. _Under the influence?_ What did this man think Lyncathropy was? A drug? "I'll manage."

"Well, yes, obviously you _can_ , since you've done that so far," Sirius agreed, "but I don't want you to decide that being away is better. I'm keeping you for Harry. You deciding to hitch it isn't…preferable."

_'What kind of answer is he expecting?'_

"Just tell me one thing," Sirius continued. "Do you have… any urges to bite people – for example _Harry_ – when they're around?"

"Not more so than you do," Remus replied tiredly.

"But Greyback is known for biting people, especially children. You're both werewolves. Do you still claim to not have the same natural urges as that werewolf?"

"With all due respect… Evan Rosier is known for torturing children and molesting them. You're both humans. And related. Do _you_ molest and torture children?"

"Hey—" Sirius protested angrily, but was interrupted.

"Greyback's urges," Remus continued sharply, "are no more natural than those of Rosier."

Sirius stared at the werewolf for a few seconds, silent and angry, before turning and leaving the room. Lupin was making him _think_ , and there were some things Sirius wasn't ready to think about quite yet.

They both wondered what Harry would say of the situation.

*

It was almost a week since Harry had promised Filippa to somehow find out about Lorenzo, and the boy was getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to go to the train station. It was already Saturday evening, and he hadn't been able to do anything worth mentioning. Sometimes, he'd feel a weird sensation, as if he was being taken on a Side-Along Apparition, but when he'd open his eyes he'd still be in his flat.

What was he doing _wrong_?

He was focusing as hard as he could, but was it _enough_? Should he… meditate or something?

Harry closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. He was feeling hungry and faint and annoyed. He couldn't fail- he had _promised_ to talk with Lorenzo. And Filippa had believed him. What would she say if he told her that he hadn't been able to do what he had promised?

 _'Should I just trip on the stairs and hope to knock my head?'_ Harry thought with no real intentions of going through with the idea. His eyes were still closed, and he tried to remember all of what he could about the train station. The colours, the smells. The bench he'd be sitting on… the slight chill… the noise.

Harry had, after the days he had spent thinking carefully about the train station and his methods of going there, discovered a rather curious thing.

Most of the previous times– actually, _every_ time except _once_ – when Harry had found himself in the train station, it had been an _accident_. When he'd wake up, someone would be there, and they'd think that Harry had been unconscious. There were no after effects of any kind aside from the ones he'd get from whatever had knocked him out in the first place.

The one time Harry had managed to transport himself to the train station intentionally, many things had been different. Sure, it had happened only for an instant, but Harry could quite clearly remember that the sensation of holding his mother's hand had… well; it had been as if his mother's hand had _vanished_ from his grip. What did that mean?

 _'It's all so confusing,'_ Harry thought. Merlin, he wanted to go to the train station, and he wanted to go there _now_. He wanted to talk with Albus, wanted to talk about the world, about what was going on. Harry wanted to see if Lorenzo was there, wanted to keep his promise to Filippa, wanted—

And suddenly, an overwhelming sensation of sliding washed over him, and Harry could see himself in the station. He was _there_ , and he barely managed to see Albus turning to look at him with surprise before he was already back in his flat.

"What," he croaked with disbelief. " _What_? " Instinctively, he sought out that sliding feeling, tried to imitate it, and managed to suddenly stand once again in the train station.

But it was _different_.

Albus was talking but the noise was too overwhelming for Harry to hear him. It was hard to breathe, as if the air itself was grainy somehow. There was a pull clutching the boy's body, trying to bring him back to the real world. Like a rubber band, he was barely managing to prevent it from snapping him back before he wanted, although Harry could feel his grip on this– whatever _'this'_ was– faltering. And there were _people_ – so many people. Old and young men and women from all over the world… Harry could even see some pets.

Were they… were they really all _dead_?

Seriously?

The horrifying reality had just managed to sink in when Harry found himself once again in his flat, this time a few feet above the couch he had been previously sitting on. With a loud yelp, the boy fell on the couch, feeling slightly dizzy and nauseated. There were so many thoughts running through his mind, disorganized, and it was giving him a headache and making him feel slightly panicked.

Harry was almost relieved when everything suddenly faded to black and he passed out.

*

Gilderoy Lockhart was worried.

"This is worse than when Yves Saint Laurent rejected my advances," Gildy whispered to himself, clutching the message he had received from Peppita Peppino in his hands. It was a bright, cold morning, and he had just opened the windows of his quarters to let fresh air in. He was dressed only in a pale yellow silk robe with orange feathers, and yet, he was too distracted by the letter to notice the cold. Peppita wrote:

> _Prepare for war, my friend_ _for it is war that is in your future. And when I say war, I don't mean a catfight like the one between you and that German ragazza from two weeks ago who had better legs than you. I mean armies and killing and blood._

"This can't be happening," Gildy whimpered. "Not in my lifetime!" Of course he knew of the rebels and had heard and read reports of some battles, but this sounded so _serious_ , as if he was under the risk of getting sent to some distant corner with no fashion to fight for a lump of bread. Or _worse_ – that the rebels would bring the battles right _here_ to England. Maybe even _Hogwarts_!

> _You scholar-type Englishmen, especially the ones like you, probably are completely unaware of how to survive in the wild. I know how good you are at dueling, my dear, but I also know that you'd rather not do anything that might lead to your face getting injured. If you really want to avoid getting caught up in the upcoming war, then I must urge you to leave England behind. Go to Japan or China. Or Morocco or Canada. But do not stay in England or anywhere in Europe. This war… I have a bad feeling about it._

"Well, I can't exactly abandon my home country," Gildy muttered, folding the letter and sliding it back into its envelope. "That'd be like _treason_." The man sighed, feeling gloomy and tired. He hated fighting, although Gildy wouldn't _quite_ dare to call himself a pacifist. He did base his books **mostly** on reality after all. Well, somewhat. Partly. Someone else’s reality, at least.

But really, if a war _did_ break out in England, what would he _do_? He'd be expected to fight. Maybe he should get some Healing training and offer his life-saving services at hospitals? Maybe he could be the one to save the life of a handsome, injured colonel and finally get the romance he so longed for? He'd be… He'd finally get his Scarlett O'Hara days, except hopefully without the heartbreaks, widowing, and all that poorness.

Fine, maybe he shouldn't call them his Scarlett O'Hara days. Maybe calling them… Elizabeth Bennett days would be better. He'd definitely rather live Elizabeth's life than the life of Scarlett.

"Hey, friend," Trelawney said, sauntering into the room while wiping what looked like white powder from around her nostrils, effectively interrupting Gildy's musings about love and life. "I brought you something."

"Sybill," Gildy said with a small smile before he almost gaped when he saw the man who walked in after her.

"I was ordered to discuss the next semester's lesson plan with you," Crouch said stiffly. Gildy stared at the man's handsome face for a few moments before turning gloomily away. Even the sight of his crush didn't make him feel better. There was _war_ coming! He couldn't enjoy seducing _anyone_ right now. He wanted to be seduced instead, damn it. He wanted the wooing and the pampering and that wonderful getting-stalked-by-love-interest thing to happen.

"Gildy," Trelawney said warily, "what's wrong?"

"Maybe-" Crouch started.

"I know what's wrong with _you_ ," Trelawney interrupted before turning back to Gildy. "Hey. Look. He's here. Sure, he's got his clothes on, but I personally would rather not see him naked anyway."

"I received dreadful news," Gildy sighed mournfully. "And I am not in the mood to… to bother with someone who clearly doesn't want me."

"By the Grim," Trelawney swore, utterly shocked.

"Well, then—" Crouch started, taking a step back, thankful for the miraculous chance to retreat. Talking at all at this point was a wrong move to make, though– that was something the man realized after Trelawney turned to glare at him, her eyes behind the wonky glasses dilated with rage.

"You broke him!" the Professor of Divination hollered, flinging herself towards Crouch with her hands extended. Her nails resembled a dangerous set of claws, and her frizzy hair and the dozens of colourful scarves draped around her thin body made her look like an exotic predatory bird trying to maim whatever it was flying at. "I'll make some death predictions come true if you don't fix him right this instant!"

Gildy offered another sad smile and wished that he'd have at least some white roses and maybe a dead dove nearby to make himself look even more tragic and beautiful.

*

Harry woke up knowing, even before he opened his eyes, that someone was nearby. He could smell Filippa's perfume.

"How did you get in?" Harry asked, still keeping his eyes shut.

"Did you sleep all night on the couch?" Filippa asked in return before sighing. "I picked the lock. Sorry." At this, Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to take a look at her. He was still lying on the couch, and the Italian girl was sitting on the floor right next to him.

"How?" he asked. "And what time is it?"

"It's half past five in the morning. And… and I tried to knock first but then used a spell. Effringo. It works better than Alohomora with locks like that."

"Not that I don't want you here, but why _are_ you here?" Harry asked then, sitting up. There was a strange feeling thrumming inside him, as if his blood was… happy? What a ridiculous thing to think! But it left him feeling very shaky and… he had this unexplainable urge to be somewhere else. Somewhere… back at the train station, perhaps?

"I couldn't sleep," Filippa confessed, and only now did Harry notice that she was dressed in her nightgown. "I… I thought if I came here I could. Why were you asleep on the _couch_? I actually didn't even notice you there when I first came in. Only after I couldn't find you in your bed and came to take another look did I notice you. Stupid of me to not notice you immediately since it's not _that_ dark here."

"You know when I told you that I could find out about what happened with Lorenzo?" Harry whispered and shifted a bit to the side to let Filippa squeeze into the space next to him. "Well, I did it. Partly, though. I went there but couldn't find him yet. So you'll have to wait for a few days still before I can tell you what happened to him."

"It's okay," Filippa said quietly, reaching to hold Harry's hand in her own. "I… I don't think I want to know after all."

"What?" Harry asked, surprised. "But—"

"I'm scared of knowing," the girl admitted. "I know it's very weak of me, Harry, but I just… I don't _want_ to know. Not yet. Perhaps someday in the future when all _this_ is a distant memory. But right now, I just can't. What if he died after hours of horrible pain? I don't want to know, Harry."

"Okay," Harry replied soothingly. "That's all right, Filippa. It's nothing to be ashamed about."

"Can I ask you how you do it, though?" Filippa whispered. "I swear I won't tell anyone else. I know you told me to not ask, and you don't have to answer, and if you tell me to not ask again, I won't, I just…"

"Sometimes," Harry replied quietly, tightening his hold on Filippa's hands, "sometimes, I can go to where the dead go." Whatever Filippa had expected, it certainly wasn't this.

"I don't know why," Harry continued. "I'm not even sure _how_ it's possible. But I go there, and I see… those who died recently. I don't know how recently though. Filippa… there are so _many_ of them."

"Many of what?" the girl asked breathlessly, pressing even closer against her friend.

"So many people who _died_ recently," Harry said. "The ongoing war that killed Lorenzo is killing _thousands_ of people _all the time_. Even as we sit here…"

"It needs to stop."

"Yes. But what could stop it? There are two sides in a war and neither will listen us."

"If the reason for this war ceases to exist, then surely eventually people will stop fighting?" Filippa asked. Harry shrugged.

"You never know." Actually, he didn't think they would, for a few years at least. It was, after all, easier to start a war than to end one. Even if the war was to officially end, even if it was declared to be over by the leaders of both sides, the people would still remember. There would be matters of revenge and wrongdoings of all kinds to sort out. Would they ever be able to coexist peacefully? Was it possible?

"Jakob is still in the Hospital Wing," Filippa said after a few moments of silence. "I… I wonder what it is that he really has. Think it's serious?"

"It probably is," Harry admitted honestly. "His stints at the Hospital Wing aside, he has been very… pale and thin lately. Paler and thinner than he used to be, I mean. And he gets tired very easily. He tries to not to show it, but next time you walk with him– especially if you go up the stairs at some point– listen to how he's breathing."

"If I had gone to Beauxbaton like my family had originally planned, I wonder what I'd be doing now," Filippa huffed. "Why is life so… _complicated_?"

"I've been thinking the same," Harry admitted. "If I had gone to Hogwarts… but if that had happened, I wouldn't have met you or Truls or Björn and the rest."

"Oh well," Filippa sighed, standing up. "I guess I better go back to my flat now. I seriously don't want to be caught by Truls. He'd think that I'm trying to do something to you."

"He's not _that_ bad."

"Not yet." Harry smiled and shook his head in response to Filippa's words. The girl winked and snuck out of his flat, and Harry could hear her fixing the lock from the outside. The smile on his face melted off as he remembered the train station again. And the people. He'd have to talk with Tom, somehow. Make him realize that too many were dying, and hopefully the man would talk about it with the Dark Lord.

*

A week later, Jakob was still in the hospital wing. Most of his classmates had decided to go along with their plan of helping him keep up with his studies as much as they could with tutoring sessions. That Sunday, it was Truls's turn, and since Filippa was having some kind of fashion designing weekend with the girls, Harry had expected to spend most of the day alone. Therefore, it came as a slight surprise to him when the doorbell of his flat rang.

"Hi," Harry said to Björn who offered a nervous smile before slipping past Harry into the flat.

"Hey," the redhead said, sitting down on the couch. Harry closed the front door and moved to sit next to his friend.

"What brings you here?" Harry asked, and Björn flushed slightly.

"I'll be blunt," the boy started. "It's about that kissing thing we talked about a week ago, remember?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I thought that you had… forgotten or something."

"Well it's not like I could just _talk_ about it, what with Truls hanging around you all the time! We're not telling him about this, by the way. I value my life too much."

"Fine, fine. But, um… you mean you want to…?"

"Yeah," Björn said awkwardly. "If you don't have anything else to do right now…"

"We could try, I guess," Harry said, feeling suddenly very hesitant. The two boys stared at each other for a while, gathering courage, before Björn took a deep breath and moved to sit very close to Harry. After a few seconds of silence, Björn moved his hands to hold Harry's face still before finally leaned in to kiss the other boy. The kiss was nothing more than a faint touch of lips. Frankly, Harry barely felt it and couldn't believe that all the fuss about kissing could really be because of something like _this_.

 _'It's not difficult,'_ Harry thought. _'It's not unpleasant, but not particularly fun either.'_ After doing nothing but this kind of kisses for the next ten minutes, Björn slowly and hesitantly pushed Harry to lie on his back on the couch, settling to sit on the other boy for a few moments, trying to think of what to do next. Neither was feeling awkward anymore, although they did feel slightly embarrassed. Neither, however, suggested backing down.

"We should open our mouths the next time we kiss," Björn said instead. "I think that's called French kissing. I don’t know what the French have to do with it, though."

"But I don't want your saliva in my mouth," Harry said. "No offence or anything. What did you eat at lunch?"

"I drank tea before I came here," Björn said, leaning closer again. "When you feel me opening my mouth, you do the same. Then we move our tongues."

"Do you even know how stupid that sounds?"

"Look, I'm not exactly clear on the details here either. We'll improvise." That said, Björn leaned closer once again, and kissed Harry with far more determination than the other boy felt reasonable. Soon, Björn warily opened his mouth, and when he felt Harry doing the same, he touched the other boy's tongue with the tip of his own. Then he pulled away.

"Your tongue is like a dead fish," Björn said. "Move it a little bit."

"Fine," Harry sighed. "Pucker up." This time, their kiss went much smoother; the tips of their tongues even touched properly, which was pretty damn _strange_ in Harry's opinion, and while it didn't make either boy feel any sparks, they both agreed that it was pretty okay.

"We'll continue this next week," Björn decided. "If you want."

"Sure," Harry replied. "Although I can't figure out why anyone would be particularly enthusiastic about this. Are you sure we’re doing this right?"

"No. But I think it's because you and I aren't attracted to each other like that," Björn said. "I mean, if I was _Truls_ , he'd be—"

"Stop it," Harry interrupted. "Seriously, why is everyone always talking about Truls like that? He likes me, okay, I know that. But not _that_ much."

"I don't know," Björn said. "I mean, he's pretty freakishly obsessive about you, to be honest. Maybe it's the life debt."

"What?" Harry frowned. "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"Well, I'm not exactly clear on the details about this either," Björn started. "But as far as I know, the longer a life debt lingers unfulfilled, the stronger its effects become. I think there's some kind of theory about these effects intensifying the most prominent feeling the debtor has towards the creditor."

"Great," Harry groaned. "One more thing I should research."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Björn said lightly. "That theory isn't really well supported. Could be proven false by anyone, I'm sure."

"Really?" Harry asked hopefully. Björn nodded.

"Trust me and forget about it. I know these things."

*

James was throwing up, leaning against a tree. The brains of someone– he wasn't sure whose exactly– had splattered on his robes when a blasting curse hit the head of a fellow Death Eater who had been walking nearby.

"You don't really have the time for that," Pettigrew said nonchalantly, walking to stand next to James. "It happens."

"Fuck you," James spat, before casting a cleaning charm on his face and mouth and then a few more on his clothes. He then turned to the battle scene again, holding his wand tightly and ready to charge.

"How many are you going to kill?" Pettigrew asked, following James closely. "Of these…enemies?"

"As many as I can," James grunted, flinging a severing curse at the closest Rebel he could find.

"Maybe you'll kill… fathers, like you. Or sons, like your own son," Pettigrew said, James only barely held back from casting a cutting curse at the man's throat. "Ever wonder why we meet the people we end up meeting? Or become—"

" _Supplanto_." James didn't turn to watch Pettigrew tripping, thanks to the hex, and focused on hitting as many Rebels as he could with far more dangerous curses. He was there to _fight_ , not to _think_. He wasn't a strategist; he was a soldier. He wasn't high ranked like Sirius to be able to go on missions instead of fight in battles like this one. He wasn't a healer like Lily to work in a hospital saving lives instead of ending them. He wasn't a student like Harry who could stay at school and not think of war.

He was there to follow orders, not to decide what was wrong and what was right.

"Tripping hex? _Really_?" Pettigrew said almost cheerfully, scrambling up and shooting a few quick curses towards the enemy with surprising ease and speed. "You never change."

"I have never used a tripping hex on you before," James hissed, dodging a strangely coloured and potentially unpleasant spell. "And stop hanging around me!"

"So rude," Pettigrew said, but did not sound particularly offended. "You make me feel rather unwanted. What if I ended up committing suicide because of you?" Frankly, James didn't care. Well, of course he didn't want anyone to kill themselves because of _him_ , but he also didn't care whether or not Pettigrew died.

"Why are you pestering me?"

"I can't tell you that."

"So there _is_ a reason!"

"There's a reason for everything, James," Pettigrew said. "You're always too stubborn to notice these things. You can only see things through your own point of view. Lily is like that, too, isn't she? I wonder from where your son got his—"

"Why the fuck," James interrupted, growling. "Do you talk about my family as if you _know_ us? You _don't_ , Pettigrew. You _don't_ know us. You never knew us and you never will." James then turned to another direction, running to fight Rebels as far away from Pettigrew as it was possible at the time.

Peter, with a strange expression on his face, stared after the other man and shook his head.

"Then things you don't know, _Prongs_. The things you don't know."

*

It was nearing the end of March, and Harry had finished reading most of the books the little secret room had provided. He couldn't help but remember Albus's words when the old man had encouraged him to… to _do_ something. He also remembered Luna calling him a coward. Filippa, half-asleep and most probably unaware, had asked him to _stop_ the war.

As if he could! Just _what_ was expected of him?

Did some people– dead and alive– really think that Harry could do something to change the world? The mere thought was enough to _exhaust_ him and make him feel small and insignificant. He was _just Harry_. Practically a nobody. These thoughts plagued him even when he was with his other classmates, making him zone off every now and then.

"You need to eat more," Filippa said during dinner, shoving some potatoes onto Harry's plate. "Want some salad?"

"Don't tell me you're still affected by Lorenzo's death?" Nikolai asked then, his voice almost mocking. "Or maybe by the deaths you read about in the newspapers? Potter, life isn't _fair_. Man up and just live it."

"You think you're so _jaded_ ," Harry replied coldly, much to the surprise of others who hadn't expected him to say anything. Harry wasn't one to fight with others, even verbally. And yet… this time it seemed that Nikolai had said the right words to annoy the usually quiet and peaceful boy. "You think you're so _cold_. You sneer and hark and laugh when you see injustice and someone being slighted, and the best line you ever have is _life isn't fair_."

"Hey—," Heidi said sharply, but Harry continued, not even sparing her a glance. He didn't let his rage show fully, but the others could _feel_ it. They could feel the temperature around them dropping rapidly, and it was only Truls who didn't seem to be alarmed in the slightest.

"You think you have experienced all the darkness the world has to offer. You think yourself to be… _disillusioned_ and, thus, _wise_. You, Nikolai, are nothing but an example of a person who keeps his eyes clenched shut while mistakenly thinking that his mind is open. I am not surprised, though, because despite of what you think you've been through, you've actually lived a pretty sheltered and privileged life. If it was someone else, I'd say that they'll never truly comprehend how terrible injustice is, till they see with their own eyes an innocent man executed for no reason. Witnessing it happen, feeling every second as an oppressing weight above you. You know that what is happening is wrong but you also know that speaking out against it will get you killed. But _you_ …"

Harry could absently feel Filippa's hand on his arm as he still continued with his speech. "You've never considered yourself really alive, have you? You feel like a void, and the only things that bring _you_ pleasure are the pain of others and being admired and feared. The enjoyment brought by injustice is based on either ignorance or inhumanity. With Heidi and Clemens, it's ignorance. With you, I know it's partly both, but it's only a matter of time before the reason is only the latter."

"That's a _terrible_ thing to say!" Heidi exclaimed angrily.

"It's the truth," Filippa shot back.

"Guys, calm down," Jakob said shakily. "Let's not fight, please."

"You seem to think that you know me well," Nikolai finally said, still keeping his gaze fixed on Harry.

"I do," Harry replied. And he did. The little gestures, the words, all the little things Nikolai had mentioned… Harry hadn't been aware that his mind had stored all of that information, but now it all came to the surface, and the dots connected to form a picture. Perhaps he was misjudging the other boy… and perhaps he wasn't. Either way, Harry wasn't going to put up with getting mocked when there was so much else bothering him.

"School will end in a few short months," Björn hurried to change the topic. "Any summer plans?"

"How about a road trip, Harry?" Truls asked eagerly, and Harry remembered vaguely planning on going with the Swedish boy to look for any Muggle relatives his mother might have. The thought of an adventure that didn't involve war or politics made Harry almost smile.

"If nothing urgent and important comes up, then why not?" he replied. "Could be interesting."

"I'm going to spend the summer going between Milan, London, and Paris," Filippa revealed. "The fashion weeks, you see, and the whole ordeal revolving around them."

"Can I come with you?" Petronella asked. "I don't have any particular plans, and I think it'd be interesting."

"Sure," Filippa replied with a small smile.

 _'It's time like these,'_ Harry thought, _'when we talk about the future and our plans… times like these when we feel Lorenzo's absence the most. I wonder what he'd have been planning…'_

*

Sirius was _bored_.

It was mid-May, and while usually Sirius would be enjoying his life– summertime always came with a delightful promise of skirts shorter than the year before– this time around, he was stuck in his house. The Dark Lord had given him a file on a rather tedious project and told him to start working on it. He 'd have one year’s time to prepare; set up the challenges, seek the contestants, organize the prize, and the location and what not.

 _'I can focus on this tomorrow,'_ Sirius decided, dropping the file onto his table. _'I wonder what that werewolf is doing. Probably reading. How can anyone read so much? It's not normal. Maybe he's up to something?'_

Much to Sirius's… well, not exactly dismay… Lupin seemed perfectly content and was up to nothing evil. Sirius had tried time and time again to sneak and ambush the werewolf, expecting to catch him in the act of something that would uncover his beastly nature, but… he hadn't succeeded in that quite yet. Sirius had used spells to mask his presence and had succumbed to looking pretty ridiculous, sneaking from shadow to shadow inside his own house just to see Lupin… reading!

 _Reading_!

Not even books like _So You Are A Captive– What Now?_ by Murdy Murguggle or _How To Flee The Household You Just Committed A Murder In_ by Knot Nown, no. Lupin would be reading books about household charms and muggle history and birth of traditions! Sirius narrowed his eyes and, after casting a few presence-masking spells on himself, raced once again to where Lupin was without a doubt reading.

Remus was so used to Sirius Black randomly flinging himself into rooms that he didn't bother looking up from _Philosophical Theories of Transfiguration_ by Marius McGonagall when the man once again made an appearance. He did, however, ask what he was doing.

"None of your business," Black spat, scrambling up from the floor, his icy blue eyes still fixed on the werewolf. "Oh Merlin, what are you, a walking encyclopaedia? A Library in hu— werewolf form? Are there books that you _haven't_ read yet?"

"Yes, there are many books I'm yet to read."

" _Why_ are you doing that?"

"I like reading."

"How can you _like_ reading books like that !"

"It's educational."

"HOW CAN YOU FIND SOMETHING EDUCATIONAL FUN!" Sirius bellowed. "I can't let Harry anywhere near you! You'll turn him into a bookworm! A worse bookworm than he already is, but at least Harry reads _stories_. Fifteen minutes with you and I might see him enjoying a book about _potions_!"

"There's nothing wrong in enjoying studying."

" _Everything's_ wrong with enjoying studying. It's… it's a disease! A disorder! A mental condition!"

"…" Lupin's golden eyes were almost twinkling with suppressed amusement as he watched the dark-haired pureblood rant, throwing around some bizarre theories about book-aliens and book-curses. The most amusing thing was, in Lupin's opinion, that Black was most likely completely serious.

"…and then all everyone will ever talk about is books, books, and _books_. People will start talking by quoting other people all the time…"

 _'He's also prone to exaggeration,'_ Lupin thought.

"…and I'd need to read and recite _War and Peace_ just to _pick someone up_ , for Circe’s sake…"

_'And dramatics. I wonder if he's going to stop ranting anytime soon.'_

"…and even in bed, only Arithmancy formulas would work…"

*

"Two weeks before freedom!" Clemens yelled, hanging upside down on his broom. It was a warm, sunny Thursday evening, and they were done with their lessons for the day. Instead of going to the Hall to eat, the nine students had packed together three baskets full of food and went outside to one of the least used Quidditch pitches. Clemens was eager to lure the others to fly.

"I can't wait," Harry grinned, feeling happy and impatient. "I miss my parents."

"We'll be third year students!" Filippa cheered. "I'll be thirteen!"

"Feels like time goes by so quickly," Jakob said, sitting on the grass and tiredly leaning his head on Petronella's shoulder. "Second year is practically over. Next is the third. Then the fourth. Then the fifth…"

"When I turn fifteen, I'm going to throw the _biggest_ fashion party in Europe," Filippa said. "And I'll have my designing debut! Heidi, Nella, you'll model for me, right?"

"Sure," Heidi promised with a smile.

"I will if I'm skinny enough at the time," Petronella said. "It'd be _so_ cool. I can't _wait_ to see your designs."

"Mette and I would love to attend your party," Björn promised cheerfully.

"Erling still doesn't even know that you _exist_ ," Jakob pointed out. "The likelihood of the two of you—"

"This year, my betting profits rose to five hundred galleons," Björn cut in. "The older I become, the better betting chances I get with higher stakes. I'll be super rich in a few years, and _no one_ is going to say no to me."

"Oh come on," Filippa exclaimed, shaking her head. "Not all women are swayed by money!"

"Correct," Björn said calmly. "But Mette is. She's a gorgeous gold digger with an empty head and perfect face."

"You know that, and you still want to get her?" Petronella asked, clearly surprised. "I want to marry for love."

"Same here," Heidi agreed, blushing slightly. "I can't wait to experience romance."

 _'I wonder if Tom is involved with someone,'_ Harry suddenly thought. What kind of woman would suit Tom anyway? Someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, perhaps?

"What about you, Harry?" Filippa asked suddenly with a mischievous expression. "Do you want to marry for love?"

"Right now, I can't even imagine falling in love," Harry replied honestly. "I can't imagine a girl I'd fall in love with."

"Well," Björn drawled with a smirk. "It doesn't have to be a girl." Harry resisted the temptation to glance at Truls and focused on trying to not blush. While he did succeed in the former, he failed miserably at the latter.

"Shut up," he said instead, standing up. "Anyone up for a round of Seeking? Clemens, got the Snitch?"

*

There was something seriously wrong with Peter Pettigrew. Usually, James would have been curious, trying to find out what… but not this time. He didn't _want_ to know– all he wanted was to see the man gone. Or more accurately, James didn't want to see Pettigrew _at all_ ever again. Then again, he had only three days left before he'd get to go back home. Harry's school would end in two days, too, and hopefully, Lily could make it back from Italy for the summer as well.

Even now, Pettigrew abruptly looked up from his bowl of soup with a toothy grin on his face. His watery blue eyes were full of mirth as they were suddenly fixed on James who couldn't help but suspect that Pettigrew had _somehow_ heard James thinking about him. Or as if there was some secret about James that Pettigrew knew and found amusing. Either way, it was very unsettling.

 _'But that's impossible,'_ the man thought. And then; _'I wonder if he's human.'_

Pettigrew _looked_ human and was definitely not a vampire or a werewolf or a veela. He didn't act or look like any magical creature, and yet… he was too creepy and unreal to be just a human. Or was James just becoming paranoid? Maybe he was. All this camping around, fighting, and looking for more rebels was really taking its toll on him. Lucky Harry– the kid got to be at school, enjoy his days with no stress.

"Mr. Potter," a familiar voice said, and James turned to see the Lance Corporal of his team, Jeremy Gills, standing behind him.

"Yes?"

"Could you please come with me for a few minutes," Gills said, and warily, James stood up.

"Did something happen, sir?" James asked. "I… I didn't break any rules here, did I?"

"No, Mr. Potter," Gills replied as they walked towards Corporal Carrow's tent. "We… received some news that concern you."

"Did something happen?" James repeated, this time feeling worried and alarmed. "Are my wife and son alright?" he asked just as they entered Carrow's tent.

"Mr. Potter," Corporal Amycus Carrow said, looking up. "Please sit down. I have… unfortunate news for you."

"My family… are they alright?"

"We have already sent a message informing your son in Durmstrang," Carrow started. "A few rebels attacked the Central Wizarding Hospital of Rome… And I am sorry to be the one to tell you that your wife… was amongst the fallen."

"What?" James whispered. _'I didn't hear this. I'm misunderstanding something.'_ "You're saying…"

"The death of your wife is very unfortunate," Carrow said, his monotonous voice betraying no emotions. "I am sorry for your loss."

"My loss," James repeated, feeling numb. What was going on? Surely Lily wasn't… couldn't be.

Lily was gone. His Lily was _gone_.

No. No, no, no. Nononononono. It couldn't be. It _wasn't_. There had to be a misunderstanding. Maybe they mistook some other redhead for Lily. Yes, that's what happened. Lily couldn't be dead. She couldn't just… just _die_.

Elsewhere, Harry had finished packing all of his things that he'd take back home with him for the summer when an owl carrying a black envelope entered the flat through an open window.

> _To Mr. Harry Potter:_
> 
> _I extend my most profound condolence to you on the loss of your mother Healer Lily Amelie Potter, née Evans, who died on 27th of June 1993 as result of an enemy attack. I sincerely hope the knowledge that Healer Lily Potter was an exemplary member of the healing unit and died while serving the Cause and the Country will comfort you in this hour of great sorrow…_


	13. Chapter 13

> _To Mr. Harry Potter:_
> 
> _I extend my most profound condolences to you on the loss of your mother Healer Lily Amelie Potter, née Evans, who died on 27th of June 1993 as result of an enemy attack. I sincerely hope the knowledge that Healer Lily Potter was an exemplary member of the healing unit and died while serving the Cause and the Country will comfort you in this time of great sorrow._

Harry felt his whole world shutting down. All he was aware of consisted of the slip of paper and the words on it – and the sound of his own, loud breathing. A small part of Harry wondered how was it that he could breathe when he had such a  _painful_  feeling in his chest right now.

He felt as if he had been pushed off a bridge. He didn't know what to do and didn't even notice when his legs gave in from beneath him, and he fell to sit on the floor. The slip of paper was still in his hands, and he kept reading the words over and over again.

He didn't understand. There was probably a mistake in there somewhere.

Harry's face was a blank as he left his flat, still clutching the paper. He didn't wear his shoes or jacket, didn't care that it was rather late and everyone would probably be resting at this hour to be up tomorrow bright and early to go back home. He didn't even hesitate when he stood in front of the door of Truls's flat and rang the doorbell.

He was carefully trying to not think about the possibility of the message being true. And yet, the knowledge pushed through denial, making silent tears fall down his face.

"Who's the— Harry?" Truls's tired tone changed into an alarmed one when he saw his best friend crying in front of him. The blond pulled Harry inside and led him to the couch, trying to think of what could have possibly happened. He didn't need to ask, though, as Harry handed him the letter he had been clutching.

As Truls read the paper, a loud sob escaped Harry. His tears were falling freely now, and he didn't want to believe this, didn't want to accept it. Wasn't going to accept it. This couldn't happen, not to his mother. She was just a healer; she wasn't a fighter! Why would she—

"Harry," Truls breathed, sitting down next to Harry and wrapping his arms around the boy, "I'm… so sorry…  _Merlin_ , I don't even know what to say…"

Harry opened his mouth, wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn't. He held back his sobs, tried to not cry anymore because crying would mean that he had a  _reason_  to cry, right? And he didn't have a reason because this wasn't,  _couldn't be,_  true.

What was he supposed to  _do_?

"Harry, do you have anyone we can contact?" Truls asked. "Is your father—"

"In Ireland. Deployed," Harry whispered. He wanted to… he wasn't sure what. Scream? Wail? Circe, how could someone feel so much  _pain_  without a curse of some kind?

"Is there anyone else who can come now and help you home?" Truls asked gently, rubbing Harry's back. "A relative or a family friend or a godparent?"

"Godfather," Harry croaked. "Sirius Black. But Truls… this isn't… she… my _mum_ …"

"I wish I knew what to say to make you feel at least a little bit better," Truls muttered. "But any way I can, I'll stand by your side. If there's anything you need, anything _at all_ that I can give…"

"There's going to be a funeral," Harry whispered, moving to press his face against Truls's shoulder to hide his fresh tears. His voice was slightly muffled when he continued: "My mum is going to be in a coffin and buried."

Truls ran his fingers through Harry's hair in a manner that he hoped would be soothing. He didn't know what to say– Harry was right after all.

"And then insincere people who barely knew her will come to me and tell me how _sorry_ they are that she's dead," Harry said, sounding bitter. "People who, when she was alive, kept thinking less of her because she wasn't a pureblood like them."

"Do you want me to attend the funeral with you?" Truls asked, and after a few moments of silence, Harry shrugged and sighed.

"I… I don' know," he said. "I don't _want_ … the funeral…"

"What's your godfather's address?" Truls asked.

"He lives in number 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry replied, finally leaning away from Truls who nodded and moved towards the fireplace.

"I'll firecall your godfather," Truls said. "He'll get you home tonight, I'm certain. You and your dad will support each other."

"But—"

"I'll tell the others tomorrow morning that you had to leave early due to a family emergency. Unless you don't want me to tell them?"

"…I… thank you."

"You'll pull through this, Harry," Truls promised. "You _will_."

*

Harry was aware of what was happening around him. Somewhat.

Sirius had come and picked him up from Truls's flat, and Harry hadn't had the energy to so much as greet his godfather. When they came back to Godric's Hollow, Harry… didn't know what to do. How could his mother  _not_  be there? It didn't feel right to be there if his mother…  _wasn't_.

"Go to your room and try to rest, Harry," Sirius said, looking exhausted after a few hours of trying to make sense of things. "It's almost morning. I'll… speak with James."

_James._

Harry's father. The man who had locked himself into the bedroom he used to share with his wife and hadn't made a sound since doing so. He hadn't checked on Harry, and the boy was partly relieved about that– he didn't feel like seeing his father either. It'd just make it more real. That… only the two of them were left.

Harry felt as if this wasn't part of reality. As he walked towards his room, he expected his mother to call him, and when she didn't, he felt scared. So  _scared_. His room… the last time he had been there, his mother had been in the house as well.

"Don't be gone," Harry whimpered clenching his eyes shut. "Mummy, don't be gone." Thoughts of possible courses of action filled his mind before he suddenly remembered the train station. Harry's eyes widened, and he stood up in his room, breathing hard.

"I'll do it," he hissed before clenching his eyes shut. If his mother was at the train station… if he could find her… Maybe he could pull her back? Maybe he could… he didn't know _what_ , but Harry needed to see her. Needed to talk to her one more time.  _Needed_  it so badly—

The overwhelming sensation of sliding came faster this time.

He felt the coldness of the train station surrounding him again and heard the faint noise of the trains as they moved, stopped, or just passed by. Perhaps because he was so desperate? Because he had done it before already? For some other reason? Harry didn't know or care about that right now. All he wanted to focus on was finding his mother.

Except that it would be easier said than done.

Just like last time, the train station was  _packed_. Harry looked around, tried to find his mother, but just standing still and searching with his eyes didn't much help him. There were too many people, even children! How was he supposed to find Lily in this crowd? He couldn't even see Albus anywhere!

Harry ran, looking for his mother, calling her name. Maybe if she  _wasn't_  here, she'd be alive? Maybe a mistake had happened? He didn't stop and ask people, none of them looked friendly.

"Lily!" he yelled. "Mum!  _Mum_!" He bumped into someone, got a glare sent his way, but didn't stick around to offer an apology. It wasn't  _important_  right then, he had something far more important to do. The pull that was trying to push him back to the world of the living was strong, very strong, and Harry didn't know how much time he had before he'd be pulled away from the station.

"Mum!  _Lily Potter_!" What was he supposed to call her? It felt so weird using her name but how would she recognize herself if all he called was 'mum' or 'mother'?

A woman with long red hair was just boarding the train, and Harry almost screamed when he saw her. He ran as fast as he could in order to reach her, only to realize– when he was already close– that she was far too tall to be his mother.

He almost cried, then.

Harry was feeling increasingly desperate when a thought occurred to him– if his mother wasn't in the station, maybe she was in the  _train_? Yes, he would board the train and—

Suddenly, someone was gripping Harry's arm and pulling him back, away from the train. Away from where his mother could be.

"No!" Harry screamed and then struggled, but the grip of the person dragging him was far too strong. "Let me go! I have to find my mo—"

"I didn't let you die then," a female voice snarled. "And I'm not going to let you die now!"

"My mum is there! She must—"

"No."

"I  _have to_  find her!"

"No."

"LET ME GO! I WANT TO FIND MY MOTHER!"

"And I said  _NO_!" The last 'no' was accompanied by a pull, and Harry was suddenly shoved against the wall, and the person– the woman– who had dragged him away from the train was glaring down at him. It was a frightening sight as the woman's eyes kept twitching to opposite directions in her pale face that was framed by lank, dull hair.

She looked… familiar. He had seen her before… Had… he knew her name… knew  _her_.

"I've seen you before," Harry gasped, stopping his struggle to catch his breath. "I  _know_ you. You're… you're…"

"You're far too important," the woman hissed at him. "You have great things to do; you can't collapse just because of something as insignificant this."

"It's _not_ insignificant! My mother—"

"Your mother does not matter in the big picture, Harry Potter. And neither does your father. But  _you_ do, Chosen One.  _The Boy Who Lived._ "

"What?" Harry asked, confused. He was simmering with rage at this woman's belittling words regarding his mother, and he felt even more desperate than before. But he couldn't move from where she had pushed him. "What are you talking about?"

"Ask you father," the woman hissed, bringing her face closer. "Ask your father about when you died."

"You're crazy," Harry snapped, trying to push her away. "I need to find—"

"Your mother is long gone. And you don't belong here. Go back."

" _I won't_!"

And yet, despite his words, Harry found himself back in his room, falling onto the floor and holding back a scream of pain and disappointment. His vision was blurred by tears, and he didn't bother trying to stand up and move. He didn't want to cry, he didn't know what to think or feel. He was so _confused_ , and everything was crazy, and… and maybe _he_ was the crazy one? Maybe that's why he didn't understand anything anymore?

Harry hoped that he would pass out– his mind was going overdrive and he  _needed_ a break. Everything was so overwhelming. So maddening, so—

Harry didn't even notice when his table started shaking or when the bed started creaking. He was so fully focused on trying to organize his thoughts. He _shouldn't_ have gone to the train station– it only had made things worse. He hadn't managed to see his mother. His mum was _dead_. Gone.

Harry just… couldn't accept it.

Didn't want to even try.

*

Meanwhile, Sirius was trying his best to comfort James, who had managed already to down one whole bottle of firewhisky and seemed to want more.

"You loved her, and she loved you just as much, James," Sirius said, "but don't forget that Harry needs you now, too."

"She's gone," James replied hoarsely. "My Lily is  _gone_."

"Harry—" Sirius tried again but was interrupted by his friend.

"Harry is bloody  _fine_!" James snarled. "He's up in his bloody room  _safe and_ sound!  _But_ Lily _is gone! My wife_ dead!  _MY… WIFE… IS… DEAD!"_

"As if I don't know," Sirius muttered. He honestly didn't have any idea of what to say, what  _should_ be said. "Don't let the grief overwhelm you."

"It's not like  _you_ would understand," James snapped angrily. "You've never been married!"

"Well, _yes_ , but that doesn't mean that I haven't experienced loss—"

"Just shut the bloody hell  _up_ , Sirius! Get out of here; I don't want to see you right now. I don't want to see  _anyone_ right now."

"Fine," Sirius said. "I'll come back when you've managed to sober up a little bit."

"Like I'm going to let that happen," James muttered, reaching for another bottle of firewhisky that Sirius hadn't noticed before. The elite Death Eater shook his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. After a few moments of standing still, trying to figure out how to handle this disaster, Sirius decided to go and check on Harry, hoping that the boy wasn't in a state similar to that of James.

He wished that he knew what to say, anything that would bring a little bit of comfort. But he didn't. Sirius had never been good with feelings and all that _talking_ business. Although, lately, the werewolf had been telling him to work on expanding his emotional side or whatever.

Sirius found the boy lying on the floor. His tears had dried, and he stared at the ceiling with an expressionless face. It… wasn't an expression Sirius wanted to see on his godson's face.

"Harry?" he said quietly, and the boy turned look at him.

"Uncle Sirius," Harry whispered, and he sounded so…  _defeated_. Sighing, Sirius stepped into the room, noticing the mess but not commenting on it.

"You shouldn't lie on the floor like that," Sirius said gently. "Come on, at least on bed. It's softer and warmer."

"When's… When will mum be buried?" Harry asked, and Sirius froze, feeling his heart ache painfully. He didn't want to reply, didn't even have the answer. So he stayed quiet as he lifted Harry off the floor and onto the bed. The boy, so pale with such wide, tired green eyes, stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"I don't know," Sirius finally replied, staring down at Harry. "I'm sorry. Is there… can I do anything for you, Harry?"

"How's dad?"

"James is… upset. He's grieving. It's understandable, and I guess it'll last for… I don't know how long. Grief is a… terrible thing, I've heard. But it's also necessary."

"Will he take care of the funeral?"

 _'Why are you so practical?'_ Sirius thought _. ‘Let me handle this if your father can’t. You’re too young to force this kind of control on yourself.’_ "I… I'm not sure. I'll ask him. If he doesn't, then I will."

"Thank you," Harry said, closing his eyes. "Can you close the door behind you, Uncle Sirius?"

"Sure," Sirius replied, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "Harry… I'm not really good at comforting people, but don't forget that I'm here for you, alright? No matter what."

"Thank you," Harry repeated, and didn't turn to look at his godfather when the man left. Alone again, the boy covered his face with his hands, taking a deep breath. He wasn't crying. He didn't want to cry. But… how was it possible to feel this bad and not die?

He felt lost and empty inside and had no idea how to get rid of that feeling. Then there was nausea… Nausea that didn't make him want to throw up– it just burned inside him like acid. It was difficult to breathe, as if breathing had become a chore too heavy for him.

Was this the grief Sirius had mentioned? Or was it denial, the way he didn't want to think about the aftermath of his mother's death? The consequences. Couldn't imagine a future where he'd never see her again.

_Grief._

How many emotions can one word truly include? It felt as vast and deep as the sea, as high as the sky, as unmovable as earth itself. Like an open wound set on fire, and Harry didn't know how to deal with it. He had foolishly thought that by accepting Albus being dead he had understood death.

How  _wrong_ , how  _naive_  he had been.

And how he hated himself now for such naivety.

*

Tom had recognized the name Lily Potter the moment he had seen it amongst the names in the list of deceased. He had stared at it for a few long minutes, feeling highly uncomfortable, wondering what her son would do. Will he cry? Will he hate the war and blame the Dark Lord?

Will he blame Tom?

Even if he did, Tom couldn't bring himself to feel sorry. Harry's mother had worked in the front where many people died anyway. And war was necessary. Her death didn't make war any more or less terrible, didn't make it any more or less… necessary.

" _Well, aren't we being gloomy tonight,_ " Nagini hissed. " _What's up, ugly?_ "

"I am  _not_ ugly. And the boy lost his mother," Tom said. "I expect him to be quite upset about it."

" _Are you going to see him?_ "

"I might be recognized so I won't go undisguised to the funeral."

" _Why not go as, well, Voldemort? If the boy gets angry about that, it could distract him from being upset._ "

"And then he won't talk to me ever again. Not likely, Nagini."

" _When **is**  this… funeral? _"

"I was recently informed that it'd be on next Tuesday. Organized by Sirius Black since apparently the boy's father is in no condition to… do anything."

" _What will you tell the boy? You're not sorry._ "

"What if he starts crying?" Tom asked suddenly, scowling. "I doubt that throttling him 'til he passes out is appropriate in a funeral."

" _…I don't know,_ " Nagini replied. " _But I can tell you that few moons ago I saw a woman crying. She was comforted by getting naked with one of your black things. People. What do you call them… Death Eaters? How can you eat Death anyway?_ "

"…what!"

" _There were stabbing motions involved, anyway. Just not with a knife._ "

"I am NOT going to— Oh, get lost, you!" Tom glared at the snake as it hissed in a way that could be considered laughter before slithering away. He then shook his head and clenched his eyes shut. Why was dealing with people such a  _complicated_  thing to do?

Except that… hold on…

The boy would be in a very vulnerable state of mind. He'd be missing his mother terribly and all that nonsense. Perhaps Tom could use that to find out whether or not the boy was truly able to travel between the realms of the living and the dead? He would be off guard and even if he denied it, Tom could easily see the lied.

Fantastic!

Now, to wait for the funeral. It had been a while since Tom felt as excited about one of those as he did now.

*

The sky was grey. The sun was hiding behind the dark clouds, but there was no rain and no wind. Harry stood between his father and godfather through the entire ceremony. Sirius's hand was on his shoulder, but James hadn't so much as looked at him. Harry felt hurt, but also… strangely understanding. They were both focused on trying to not crumble under the terrible feelings of loss caused by the death of the woman in the beautiful, ebony casket.

There were many guests attending. The Malfoys, the Weasleys, all of Lily's friends and co-workers, and many neighbours. Even Gildy was there. And some of Harry's classmates, too, who had come to show him support. Harry was thankful even though he had yet to get the chance to talk to them. Just knowing that they were _there_ for him made this all more bearable.

When the coffin was lowered into the open grave, Harry wanted so _desperately_ to hold his father's hand. But when he lifted his own hand to do so, James folded his arms on his chest as if rejecting any kind of touch coming from Harry. The boy clenched his fists and ignored the burning behind his eyelids.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the ceremony was finally over. The people started moving towards the house, but Harry stood still, not saying anything or looking up even when his father and godfather left. After a few moments, he could hear someone approaching him from behind and felt a pair of arms warp around him. A faint fragrance of lotus revealed the person to be Filippa, who was crying against his back.

"Oh, Harry," the girl sobbed. "I can't even imagine how devastated you must be."

"Condolences, man," Björn said with a serious expression, coming to stand next to Harry. Not a second after, Truls was also there. Truls took Harry's hand into his own and held it, knowing that nothing he could say would make things better.

"Is there anything we can do?" Petronella asked, pushing to stand between Björn and Harry. Her black dress made her seem paler than usual, and for a moment, Harry wondered if she had always been that skinny. "Also, Jakob offers his condolences, but he couldn't come. His condition—"

"I understand," Harry said quietly. "Thank you. Every one of you. Thank you." Filippa's hug tightened, and the girl burst into tears again.

"We'll support you as well as we can," Petronella promised, touching Harry's arm gently. "No matter what."

"This is the first funeral," Harry said, not looking at any of them. "But the war is only starting… How many funerals will we attend before all this is over?"

"The downside of war," Björn said grimly, "is that funerals become a habit."

"So many stories claim that it’s sweet and fitting to die for your country," Harry continued darkly. "But there's nothing sweet of fitting in dying like _this_ , dying after fighting on foreign soil to kill, not to defend. Dying like a dog for no good reason."

"The Cause," Petronella muttered, sighing. "To some, it's a good reason."

"My mom was a Muggleborn," Harry said and didn't pay attention to the surprise clear on the faces of Petronella and Björn. They both recovered from their surprise fairly quickly, and despite what Truls had predicted a long time ago, Petronella didn't seem to be particularly alarmed or disapproving.

"No cause, then," Filippa said, finally letting go of Harry. Her red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks made the boy almost break down and cry as well, but he didn't. He refused to. He wasn't going to cry. "No reason whatsoever. I'm so  _sorry_."

"Harry," a familiar voice called, and Harry turned to see Ron Weasley walking towards him with, surprisingly enough, Draco Malfoy trailing a few steps behind. "I'm sorry for your loss, mate."

"My condolences," Malfoy, too, said as soon as he was close enough to be heard without shouting. His silver eyes were warily looking at the Durmstrang students surrounding Harry. He blinked with surprise when he saw Harry's hand held by a tall, blond boy but didn't comment on it. Whatever assumptions he had, he kept them to himself.

"Thank you," Harry said. "Is my father inside?"

"Yes," Ron replied. "Do you want me to, um, call him here or something?"

"No," Harry muttered. "I want to be alone."

"We'll go then, now," Truls said, finally letting go of Harry's hand. "Don't stay out for too long and take care of yourself."

"I… will. Thank you." Truls offered one last smile before turning towards the others.

"Come on, all of you. Let's go." Understanding that Harry would need some time alone, the rest didn't protest, merely offered final condolences and followed Truls towards the house, from where they each flooed back to their homes.

And Harry stood alone, staring at his mother's last resting place and wondering how sad the lilies on the fresh grave looked.

*

Tom saw the boy before the boy saw him.

Standing alone, so pale, dressed in black funeral robes with a grim expression on his face, the boy looked older than his age. He hadn't, in the end, bothered with a disguise, only using a strong notice-me-not charm. He didn't want to be unrecognizable to the boy, after all.

"Um," Tom started, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Are you really?" the boy asked, not looking up. "Why are you here? By your standards, she's just a Muggleborn and wasn't even a useful one. She was just a healer. So why did you come? Shouldn't you be somewhere killing more people to please your master?"

 _'Awkward,'_  Tom thought, moving to stand next to the boy. The man didn't get angry at Harry's words– he had stayed up late last night reading a book about grieving and that kind of nonsense, and apparently, lashing out thoughtlessly was only part of the picture. "Well, I didn't know her so it's not  _my_  loss. That's why I said I'm sorry for  _your_ loss, not mine. And I  _am_  sorry for your loss. It upsets me to see you…sad."

Much to Tom's own surprise, he wasn't lying. Actually, seeing the boy in such a miserable condition made him decide to not even try to wheedle out information– he wasn't in a hurry to find out the details after all. And he could always just drug the boy and legilimence the information out of him next summer.

"I want her back," Harry whispered, and Tom glanced at the grave and the text on the tombstone. It was, admittedly, a simple and tasteful thing. Then again, it had been a Black that had organized all this.

"Why did this have to happen?" Harry asked. "Why did she have to die?"

"Well," Tom started. "I… am not sure. Why do people usually die?"

"I miss her," Harry said, and Tom felt immensely grateful and relieved that the boy wasn't crying. Encouraged by that, he continued.

"Some old fool once told me that to the well organized mind death is but the next great adventure," he said. "Does that make you feel any better?"

"Not really," said Harry.

"Dreadful," Tom muttered, frowning. Stupid Dumbledore.

Harry then took in a shuddering breath before he clenched his eyes shut and burst out crying.

"What? Why are you crying  _now_?" Tom yelped. He wouldn't admit it later, but at that moment, he was panicking, not knowing what to do. "What did I _say_? Potter, did I say something wrong? _Harry!_ Stop it!  _Merlin_ , can I stun you? Should I stun you? How do I stop people from crying?"

"You're pathetic," Harry cried, his whole body shaking as he sobbed. "You utter bastard."

"Yes, I am a bastard," Tom agreed. "But certainly not pathetic. _How do I stop you from crying!_ "

"Don't yell at me!" Harry sobbed.

"I'm _not_ , I'm not yelling at you," Tom yelled at the distressed boy. He needed Harry to _quiet down_ or the noise would catch someone's attention despite the notice-me-not charms. So he kneeled in front of the boy and pulled him into a stiff, awkward hug. Harry didn't seem to care about the awkwardness at all as he instantly wrapped his arms around Tom, pressed his face against the man's shoulder, and cried even harder.

 _'Merlin, I sure hope nobody can see us,'_ Tom thought, patting Harry's back in what was supposed to be a soothing or comforting manner. "Okay. There you go. What should I say to make you feel better?"

"Don't say anything," was Harry's muffled response. "You  _suck_ at comforting people."

"Well, to be fair, you're the first person I have ever comforted."

"I want my mummy back."

"Yes, Harry, and so do many others. I, of course, was different. But then again, I never knew her."

"You never knew your mum?" Harry asked, pulling slightly away. "Why?"

"She died right after I was born," Tom replied, glad that the boy seemed to have calmed down at least slightly. "And at the time, I had no idea who my father was so it's not like I got to hear anything about her anyway."

"You didn't live with your father?" Harry asked, and he had a peculiar expression on his face. Not quite curious, more like… wary? Suspicious? "Why?"

"Oh, he, well, didn't stick around once my mother told him about me."

Harry, from his part, was coming to a very mind-boggling realization. He _had_ thought that Tom's face was slightly familiar and vaguely similar to the face of the boy in the picture… the  _Dark Lord._  And now… what had Tom said about the Dark Lord's past?

_"His Muggle father had abandoned his pure-blood mother as soon as he could, and the woman died as soon as she had named her child."_

But it couldn't be! The Dark Lord must have been… at least seventy years old! But Tom– who had claimed that his real name was _Marvolo_ – didn't look older than a man around his early-thirties! So surely he _couldn't_  be…

 _'Except that wasn't it rumoured that the Dark Lord is immortal?'_  Harry thought, and the magnitude of the possibilities presented almost made him fall down. If Tom _really_ was the Dark Lord, then how come he hung around Harry anyway? Wait, what if the man knew about Harry's wand? But he hadn't acted hostile towards Harry aside from that very first meeting in the Library a long time ago.

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked, his hands still on Tom's shoulders, staring into the man's eyes. "Are you my friend?"

"What?" Tom asked, blinking with surprise. He couldn't help but notice that even though a lot had changed in the boy– he wasn't as annoying or rude, for one– the  _Avada Kedavra_ -g reen eyes were still the same. "What's this, now? My response depends on whether or not you'll start crying."

"Oh, shut up," Harry snapped, scowling. "I'm not going to cry again… I think."

 _'I take back that bit about him not being rude anymore,'_ Tom thought. "It's probably going to rain soon. Shouldn't you go inside?"

"Perhaps," Harry replied, narrowing his eyes again. "Why don't you come with me? Uncle Sirius is an elite Death Eater too. You probably know him."

"Well actually, I have some things to do," Tom said hastily. He did  _not_ want to see Black's expression if the man was to see him… as hilarious as the reaction might be. "I just thought I could drop by and see how you were doing. I'll… just… take my leave, soon."

"Who can I blame for this?" Harry asked suddenly. "My mum's dead. Who can I blame? The Rebels? The  _Dark Lord?_ "

"Blame the war," Tom replied. "And for the war, blame the Rebels."

"As long as I don't blame the Dark Lord, huh?" Harry stated bitterly.

"You and I will soon have to talk about this," Tom said, letting go of Harry and shrugging the boy's hands off his shoulders before standing up. "If you're not going to be a Death Eater…"

"Shouldn't you just get rid of me, then?" Harry asked, taking a step back and looking up at the man with a blank expression. "I wouldn't mind. My mum's dead, and my dad can't bear to look at me anymore. Life is too confusing, and everything's a mess anyway."

"Don't be stupid," Tom replied, offering Harry a handkerchief. "Wipe your nose and look presentable. Always act like you're wearing an invisible crown."

 _'I'm probably mistaken,'_ Harry thought, doing as told.  _'He's much too nice to be the Dark Lord.'_  "What should I do? I don't… mum isn't here, and…"

"Focus on your studies," Tom said. "You're still just a brat; you aren't  _supposed_ to have any grand goals or responsibilities anyway at that age. Besides… if you try to get involved in this war at this point, all you'll manage to do is to make yourself an enemy of the Dark Lord. And that, as much as I'd hate it, will get you killed."

 _'I don't doubt that,'_  Harry thought and nodded. "It's not like there's anything I can do anyway."

"Precisely," Tom said and nodded as well. "I'll take my leave now. Just focus on school, and learn as much as you can. Your mother is gone, but you're not. Your future is still ahead of you."

"Goodbye," Harry said, and watched the man walk past the wards as easily and unnoticeably as he had done before. As soon as Tom was outside the warded area, he apparated away.

 _'You're right,'_ the boy thought. _'There is no such a button that I can press on to stop the war, but I can definitely do something to help that process.'_

"Mum," Harry said, "I don't think I can stay hidden anymore, no matter what your wishes were." But first, he'd have to confront James about something. He hadn't forgotten about what the woman at the train station had told him.

_"Ask your father about when you died."_

*

Sirius had ended up force-feeding James two vials of Calming Draught before the man could sit still and talk. Harry was still outside, and all the guests had left, thankfully, not wishing to linger around for any longer than necessary.

"Your attitude is hurting Harry," Sirius said. "I know you're in pain right now, but he's a child, your son, he needs you."

"I want Lily to come back," James muttered, eyes closed. "What's the point in doing this shit anymore if I can't have Lily with me?"

"Doing what?" Sirius asked, alarmed. "Look, buddy, I know you're mourning, but don't do anything hasty—"

"Hasty like what?" James drawled, sounding almost drunk. "Give it a few years, and then Harry will be in the front, too. He's going to be  _elite_ , you see. All that Durmstrang nonsense and all. He'll go and fight in that war, and what if he dies too, huh? My wife's gone, and my son will die before he reaches twenty—"

"Don't be stupid," Sirius scoffed. "I'm not going to let Harry end up fighting in a battle if I can prevent it."

"I don't know how I can survive without Lily, Sirius."

"You just have to be strong, James."

"And… and what's the difference between being strong and being jaded?" James snorted. "Wish I could  _be_  jaded. Maybe… maybe I would feel less  _miserable_."

"I'm not telling you to not feel sad and grieve," Sirius said. "I'm just telling you that there's life even after this."

"No there isn't," James deadpanned. "I'm going to live in this stupidly big house on my own with the house-elves—"

"And Harry."

"Harry will be in Durmstrang. Or he can be with you. He can do whatever he bloody wants, I don't care."

"James!" Sirius snapped.  _'I'm glad I fed him the potions. Who knows what he would be like otherwise without them.'_ "I told you a few times already– I know that you're sad and grieving, but don't you fucking dare to take it out on Harry like this."

"Take it out on  _Harry_!"

"You're ignoring him! Fuck, more than that, you're neglecting him! You didn't bother asking about him at all, whether he's eating or sleeping or—"

"Fuck _you_ Sirius," James hollered, feeling such anger that it even pushed through the haze of calmness the potions had forced him into. "You think I bloody care if he sleeps badly for a week! My wife is  _dead_! Which do you think is worse!"

"Don't you love him, you—"

"Well of course I do! I just don't think that he's important _right now_! He’s fine!"

"If that's what you think," Sirius growled, "then I'm taking Harry to live in Grimmauld Place with me for the summer. Meanwhile, do try to snap back to your senses before you end up as alone as you really think you already are."

"Lily would know what do," James groaned, covering his face with his hands. "She would…"

 _'I didn't know you depended on her that much,'_  Sirius thought and sighed. "You're not the only one who lost someone important in this war, James. As devastating as it is, you have to move on. Eventually."

"Don't take Harry away yet," James said then, sadly. "I'll try to get better. Just… not today."

"As you wish."

"I'm tired."

"Go to sleep."

"I can't."

"I can stun you."

"Don't be a bitch."

"Bastard," Sirius grinned, standing up. "It's getting late, mate. Instead of stunning you, how about you just get a sleeping potion?"

"I think I have some left," James muttered. "Hand me one?"

"I'll put it on the table," Sirius said. "Grab it when you want to sleep, though I suggest talking to Harry first."

"You'll come tomorrow?"

"For sure. See you."

"Yeah… See you."

Sirius left then, right after positioning a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion within James's reach. He wondered absently where Harry was on his way out. He didn't see the boy on his way to the Floo, and the only thing that stopped him from looking for Harry was the possibility of him wanting some time alone.

 _'If he really is alone,'_  Sirius wondered while grabbing a handful of floo powder. _'Did all of his friends leave? Maybe one of them stuck around or something.'_

*

It was almost an hour later that James moved from the armchair he had been slouching on. He stood up, rubbing his face and wondering if the sleeping draught would really help him. He was tired, so tired, but he knew that, if he went to bed, he'd just stay awake thinking and thinking and thinking.

He had no idea what to do without Lily.

He didn't have any idea how to raise Harry on his own. Didn't know how to order the house-elves to do all of what they should– Lily had handled that part, always. And now, she was no longer there. Whose wise advice would he listen to now? Who'd know to soothe his doubts and fears?

His wife had been more than just a spouse– she had been his  _friend._  And now, it felt like James was missing a half of his heart and soul, and he didn't know how to cope without that half. Who'd be there to say no when James and Sirius would try to lure Harry into doing something reckless? Who'd be there to stop them from eating a whole cake in one go?

For some reason, James was frightened of the idea of having to drink his morning coffee alone. At breakfast, lunch, dinner… there'd be just him and Harry. And every time he saw Harry or thought about him, he'd also think about those future moments when Lily should be there, but wouldn't be.

Like Christmas.

Or birthdays.

What about when Harry graduates? Who'll stand by James then, clapping and watching Harry with pride? Sirius? No offence to the man but James didn't want  _Sirius_  to look like a proud mother. Best friend or not, there were some things a guy just shouldn't do, in James's opinion.

Sighing again, James grabbed the vial and exited the office room. He'd sleep in a guest room– sleeping in the room he had shared with Lily would be just too painful.

 _'I wonder if this feeling will ever go away,'_ James thought. Suddenly, he stopped. In the hallway in front of him, Harry was standing with a peculiar expression on his face. The boy looked taller and older than James remembered. Then again, he hadn't really  _looked_ at his son for… almost a year. He hadn't seen Harry at all for months, and when he finally could, he had tried to avoid doing so.

James felt ashamed but didn't regret it. Couldn't. It hurt, looking at Harry who had eyes so similar to Lily.

"I have something I want to talk about," his son said.

"Harry, I don't want to talk right now," James replied tiredly. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting, but—"

"I don't care," Harry cut in. "It's important."

"Not now, Harry," James said, scowling. His earlier irritation was surging up again. Why couldn't even _Harry_ understand? Why was the child being so dense and insensitive? James really didn't have the energy to deal with this kind of behaviour right now. "Just go back to your room—"

"I'll leave you to drown in your self-pity as soon as you answer my question," Harry snapped, glaring. James was… surprised? Maybe even shocked. Harry wasn't really a negative person, and James couldn't remember a time when his son had looked so angry and…  _hateful_.

"I'm not drowning myself in self-pity," James muttered, hunching his back.

"In self-pity and whatever liquid you get your hands on," Harry replied coolly, eyes flickering towards the half-hidden bottle of firewhisky in James's right hand and the dreamless sleep potion in his left. "Since, according to you, you're the one who suffered the worst loss, isn't that right?"

"You wouldn't _understand_ ," James groaned. How many times would he have to re peat it for people to finally understand? "She's…  _was_ … my wife, Harry."

"And she was my  _mother_ ," Harry replied. "No amount of grief will bring her back."

"So you're over it already?" James growled, narrowing his eyes. "You—"

"I don't think I'll ever truly be over it," Harry said calmly. "But there's something I need to know. And you're going to tell me, _dad_."

"Fine," James relented. " _Fine_. Quickly, though. I just want to go and… rest."

"I'm sure," Harry muttered. "I want you to tell me about an event that took place probably very early in my childhood."

 _'What the hell is that about?'_  James wondered, frowning. "What is it?"

"Tell me," Harry started, taking a deep breath. "Tell me about when I died."


	14. Chapter 14

James found it hard to breathe. Had he been prone to heart-attacks, he was sure that he'd be in the middle of one right at that moment.

"What?" he croaked, flinching when the bottle slipped off his hand and landed with a loud crash on the floor, resulting in a puddle of firewhisky and sharp pieces of glass scattering around him. "I… I don't know what you're—"

"Don't  _lie_  to me dad," Harry said, and he looked so  _tired_. Even  _old,_ strangely enough, and James wondered what kind of lessons his son had gone through in Durmstrang for him to have changed so much from the timid, shy and unnoticeable boy he had once been.

"Harry—"

"I'm tired of having too many questions in my head. Tell me. Please."

"There isn't much I can tell you," James stammered. "Almost nothing at all, in fact. Not because I don't want to, but because I really don't  _know._ "

"Then tell me what you do know," said Harr y. "I need to know."

"Now really isn't the time for it."

"Now really isn't the time for getting completely drunk either, but that isn't stopping you."

"I am  _not_ getting completely drunk!" James snapped, flushing as soon as he said the words out loud. He then sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking almost tearful. "Can't this wait till tomorrow? I'm tired."

"Your tomorrow," Harry said, shaking his head, "will never be my today if I let you decide  _when_."

"Fine," James finally sighed. "But not here in the hallway. Let's go… to the kitchen. I might want some coffee after all."

 _'I wonder what he'll tell me,'_ Harry thought, following his father towards the kitchen.  _'This is so surreal. I had thought that he'd… say something different… Deny it more. That he'd give a reasonable excuse or…'_

"Do you want anything to drink?" James asked as soon as they reached the kitchen. Harry shook his head, sitting down. "Hot chocolate? Tea?"

"No. No, thank you."

"Alright. Um. Well… You asked… about that. And, well…"

"Just get to the point," Harry urged. He felt, as silly as it might sound,  _scared_ of hearing what James would have to say. He  _did_ want to hear it and  _knew_ that it'd be important, and yet… he was afraid. He wondered fleetingly what his mother would have said.

James, after making himself a cup of coffee, sat down as well. He didn't look at Harry, opting to keep his gaze fixed on the dark surface of the table. He stayed silent for a few long moments fore looking up with troubled expression.

"You were a stillborn," he started. "When you were born, you were dead. You didn't breathe. Your heart wasn't beating."

"Did you do some kind of a ritual or something, then?" Harry asked quietly, forcing himself to believe and try to accept what he was hearing. James shook his head.

"No. After a few moments you… coughed and started breathing. And your heart, too, started beating. We… passed it off as a misdiagnosis, but we know… _knew_ that it wasn't. You were dead and we don't have a clue how come you… lived again."

Lived again.

The Boy Who Lived, that's what that crazy, familiar woman had called him at the train station.

 _"I didn't let you die then,"_ she had said.  _"And I'm not going to let you die now!"_

Did that mean that the woman – if only he could remember her name! – had something to do with him living after being a stillborn? But how did that work, technically? Was he a healthy baby till minutes before being born or was he somehow—

"Do I have any kind of internal deformities?" Harry asked nervously, feeling almost nauseous. James shook his head.

"No, no. You… we checked you… We took you to several different, extremely skilled Healers all across the world. There was nothing physically wrong with you that they could point out."

"And that's all you know about this?"

"Yes. I told you, it's not much. I don't know  _what_ happened, Harry. But I do know that it  _did_ happen." James then sighed and looked away from Harry again. "There were several instances, though, when we'd wonder if… well… what kind of effect having been dead would have on you."

"Like what?" Harry asked quickly. "Did I do something strange or…?"

"Not really strange," James explained. "You were a quiet child and there's nothing wrong with that. But up till you were… six, I think, you used to sometimes… call your mother and when she'd come running, you'd claim that you weren't calling her, but calling… what was that name again…  _Merope._ "

"Merope," Harry whispered, feeling as if some parts of a very big, vastly unknown puzzle were sliding into place. Merope. The woman at the train station. She was Merope. But why did he know her name? Why did she know him? Why was he so important to her, for her to keep saving him?

"From where… did you find out about this?" James asked warily. "Not many know about this and it worries me greatly to think that you're being approached by some stranger."

"I have my sources," Harry replied, resisting the temptation to continue:  _'none them alive.'_  Instead he said: "Are there any more secrets I should know of?"

"I don't know," James said. "I don't think so. Are you… okay with this?"

"When the possible stops making sense, it's time to believe in the impossible," Harry muttered.  _'I need to go back and find Merope again. I wonder if Albus knows her.'_

"Harry," James spoke again, after a few moments of silence. "I don't know what to do." Harry looked at his father, who was staring gloomily at his cooling cup of coffee, looking more like a lost child in a man's body than the strong, dependable father he was supposed to be.

What could he say? He knew how he felt and knew that he'd need a lot of time and Merlin knows how many crying episodes before he'd be able to cope well enough to find some semblance of peace. But saying _that_ would do nothing to help James, and Harry felt as if he was with a stranger there, not with what was left of his family.

"I'm unbelievably sad about mum," Harry finally said. "But I think that if I don't force myself to move on, I'll be unable to do anything anymore. I think that… You have to move on or you won't be able to live."

" _Move on?_ " James sneered. "Move on when her body is yet to cool in its coffin? Move on when the mud on her grave is still fresh?  _Move on—_ "

"You're weak."

The words escaped Harry and it took him a few moments to realize that he had actually been the one to say them. James's mouth was gaping open but no sound was coming forth. And so Harry gathered his thoughts and continued, deciding that nothing he could say would be able to bring more damage than what had already been brought.

"I feel like a part of me is in that grave with her," Harry said, feeling tears burning behind his eyelids once again. "I feel like all I can remember right now are the moments when I said something mean and nasty to her. Every time I didn't say thank your or sorry or please. Every opportunity I wasted being silent when I could have told mum that I love her."

"Nothing," the boy continued, "is going to bring back those moments for me to fix them. And I don't think I'll ever stop dreaming and wishing upon every star for the chance to talk to her at least once more. I feel so  _sad_  and _angry_ and terrible and guilty and so many other things I can't even start naming. And yet, you know  _what_ dad? I'm not going to forget about… tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. The future. My future. The future without mum."

"Harry—" James started, but Harry cut him off.

"And I think that's what being strong is, sort of. To move on in order to survive even if you don't want to. Because times like these we have to  _decide,_ dad, between what we  _want_ to do and what we  _should_ do. It's no different from deciding when to fight and when to not fight."

"Durmstrang has taught you well," James muttered.

 _'I need you,'_ Harry thought, but didn't –  _couldn't_ –say that. So instead he turned to leave the kitchen. "I'll sleep the night here and tomorrow will go to Grimmauld Place. I'll spend most of my day there."

James didn't stop him.

James didn't stop him the following morning either.

*

"…and thus, knowing that it would please you greatly, I saved it from a definite death," Sirius said, finishing his explanation regarding the presence of Remus Lupin in his house. Harry, who had been pleasantly surprised, was very relieved to hear that the werewolf was in good health and nearby.

"Thank you, Uncle Sirius," Harry said to the dark haired man who nodded with a satisfied expression.

"Just remember to not go outside with it or anything. I made it take an oath a while ago so you're not in danger even when I'm out. Which is… soon, considering that I have to help your daddy dearest regain his lost senses."

"He's completely lost his footing," Harry muttered sadly. "And I said… mean things to him yesterday. I think you're the best person to support him right now."

"Kid," Sirius sighed, reaching to ruffle Harry's messy black hair. "Knowing you, mean or not, whatever you said was probably something very meaningful."

 _'If only you knew,'_ Harry thought.  _'Or maybe you do. I don't know and I don't want to know.'_

Less than an hour later Sirius finally was done combing his hair and picking his robes – not that Harry could see a difference from the man's usual appearance – before Flooing to the Potter Manor with the promise of getting James's drinking under control.

 _'He's probably going to get them both drunk,'_ Harry thought, making his way towards the basement where Sirius told him the werewolf would be. _'And then the world's worst hangover would supposedly teach dad a lesson.'_

Seeing Lupin after what felt like an eternity was nostalgic. Last time when Harry had seen the creature, so many things had been different. His mum had been alive, for one.

Lupin was just as tall as Harry remembered, but not quite as thin. He was dressed in dark brown robes that were of finer quality than what he had been wearing when he had lived with the Potters. The werewolf was looking at him silently, with a friendly expression on his face.

"You know," Harry started. "I think I missed you."

"Well, that's something I haven't heard before," Lupin replied with a smile, before it faded away. "I'm sorry about your mother. And please, do sit down."

"Thank you," Harry replied, walking towards one of the chairs in the room and sitting down. After a moment of hesitation he kicked off his shoes and lifted his legs to curl on the chair comfortably.

"Your godfather—"

"Went to talk with dad."

"He isn't coping well, I take it."

"He isn't even trying."

"Do you want to talk about your feelings regarding this?" Lupin asked gently. Harry shrugged. He sort of wanted to talk, but at the same time he felt that he had already talked and thought so _much_ about this. So he shrugged again and shook his head.

"A… friend said that to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure," Harry said. "I wonder… where my mum is right now."

"How strange," Lupin muttered. "Do you know who the person who originally said those words is?"

"No. My friend just said that it was some old fool."

"Your friend was quoting the previous headmaster of Hogwarts. His name was Albus Dumbledore."

" _Albus_?" Harry said sharply, eyes widening. "I mean… what a strange name. It's not very common, is it?"

"No," Lupin replied. "He was the Dark Lord's most dangerous enemy… Although, in my eyes, Albus was always a good man."

"What was he like?" Harry asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "I mean, what did he look like?"

"Tall and thin, he was," Lupin said. "Long silver hair and a long beard too. Blue eyes, if I remember correctly. He was a good, wise man."

 _'If we're thinking about the same person, then I probably agree,'_ Harry though, feeling the now familiar disbelief and doubt enter his mind again. "Do you miss him?"

"Not particularly," Lupin said. "But I do sometimes wonder how different the world would be, had he lived to see this day."

"When I woke up this morning I didn't remember at first that mum's gone," Harry admitted suddenly. "Remembering was terrible. I thought I was doing well, trying to get over it, but…"

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, and love leaves a memory no one can steal," Lupin quoted. "Give yourself time."

"I can't imagine staying at home anymore," Harry whispered. "It feels so _wrong_ , with mum gone. And whose bloody idea was it to place a family cemetery so _close_ to the main house anyway? It's like a constant reminder, forbidding us from feeling happy without feeling guilty at the same time."

"Mignon McLaughlin once said," Lupin started, "that the death of someone we know always reminds us that we are still alive - perhaps for some purpose which we ought to re-examine."

"Purpose," Harry repeated, as if tasting the word. "I think I know what my purpose is. Or at least… I think I know what I  _want_ my purpose to be."

"Good," Lupin said simply. "Moving on is easier when you know where to go."

*

" _Crucio._ "

Tom stared at the convulsing body of a Rebel with dark sense of satisfaction. It was a woman, perhaps in her forties, who had tried to smuggle a stolen file of important documents out of England. Her piercing screams irritated Tom, but silencing her would be pointless.

"The problem is that you confuse me too much," Tom muttered, thinking of Harry. "I should just kill you, Harry Potter. Who knows what kind of problematic character you'll end up becoming in the future."

" _Why didn't you?_ " Nagini asked, slithering into the cell. " _If dead-alive boy is dead then he'll do you no harm in the future._ "

"I told you," Tom replied, scowling. "He's entertaining."

" _You were never into dangerous entertainment._ "

"Shut it, Nagini."

" _Ooh, cranky, are we?_ "

"I don't feel good," Tom said, not looking at the snake, focusing on torturing the Rebel instead. "I don't feel good at all."

" _Why? Surely not because of what you're doing._ "

"Mm? Oh, this. No, of course not."

" _Explain yourself._ "

"Well, I—"

"  _Boring. What's for dinner?_ "

"Sometimes I hate you," Tom hissed, scowling at Nagini.

" _Only sometimes? Good scales, I'd say. You hate everyone else always,_ " Nagini replied, before it seemed to rear back and hold its breath – if snakes could do that. Tom wasn't sure. Contrary to popular belief, his animagus form was  _not_ a snake. Not that Tom was in a hurry to correct that particular misconception. He  _did_ feel that it was vastly  _unfair_  for him to not be able to turn into a snake, but never knew quite on whom to pin the blame.

Definitely not himself.

He was the epitome of all things Slytherin. He was a  _Parselmouth_ , for Merlin's sake! He was cunning and ambitious and… he was…a  _thestral_ animagus of all things. What _for_? Sure, the animals were all things dark and dangerous but they weren't snakes! They weren't—

" _Smell that?_ " Nagini suddenly said, flickering her tongue. " _This room is suddenly reeeeeking of self-pity_."

"I am  _not_ wallowing in self-pity!"

" _…I was talking about the female human there._ "

"…oh."

" _Anyway,_ " Nagini said. " _I think you feel uncomfortable because you don't hate your dead-alive boy._ "

"That doesn't make sense."

" _Think about it._ "

"You say that I'm feeling uncomfortable because I don't hate Harry," Tom said. "I refuse to think about it."

" _Because you know I'm right._ "

"Because you're a snake and you don't understand humans."

" _I understand you well enough._ "

"No," Tom said, sending the Killing Curse towards the Rebel. "No you don't." He then stood up, still feeling troubled. There was so much that still could go wrong, as long as the opposition existed. He'd have to snuff them out quickly and focus on making the rest of Europe submit to him the way England has.

Excluding Muggles, of course. Those were only good for being hunted like the disgusting filth they were. Sub-humans. Lacking. So very… weak.

"I hate Harry Potter," Tom murmured. "And I hate how he makes me feel all these…  _feelings._ " The feelings he didn't even know he had, such as the feeling of being _content_ simply due to the presence of another person. The feeling of wanting to see someone, to enjoy the company of someone. And this…confusing, troubling  _hesitation_ that stopped him from getting rid of him.

Tom didn't, couldn't, understand why he was feeling like that. He couldn't even pinpoint when exactly during the past two years he had started feeling like this. All these little attachments had crept upon him like invisible thieves in the dark.

"How do I fix this?" he asked the corpse of the dead Rebel. "What do I  _do_ with that child?"

*

Harry's days were busy.

There was so _much_ he needed to think about, so much he needed to research and so many questions he needed to find answers to. He focused on that with everything he had, allowing his research to distract him from thinking about his mother. It did help, a little bit. He'd see her after-image standing where she'd never stand again, conjured by his imagination and desperate wishes, and nothing but closing his eyes and thinking about his research would succeed in driving the thoughts of her away.

He'd be reading a book and for a few insane moments hear her calling him, though he knew that she wouldn't – _couldn't_ – do so from the world of the dead. So he'd start reading aloud and pretend that everything was fine and nothing affected him. It'd work, somewhat. He'd read and research for as long as he could stay awake. He'd sleep only when he was too tired to resist, ending up resting on couches and chairs and sometimes even on the floor of the library.

Harry was sure that he wouldn't be able to stop the war – thinking that he could was unrealistic. But he could try to find out what were the aims of the Rebels and what were the aims of the Dark Lord and then he could look for ways to either make both happen or come up with a compromise.

There was so  _much_  he would have to do, aside from that. Making people understand that not every werewolf was a monster would be tough, if not near impossible within Harry's own lifetime. But if he could _start_ the process, that would surely, eventually, one day improve _something_. It all was in the education. If people would just learn from neutral sources before judging… why was that so difficult to some?

There were so many people who mocked others for being easily fooled, and yet believed most of the propaganda said about strangers. Not just creatures, but foreigners and people of different religions. Didn't they understand that magazines sensationalize things in order to sell? They encouraged stereotypes and prejudice and more often than not offered only the convenient, misleading, scandalous side of the truth. How many people thought that they knew everything about a group of people just because they read a few articles about it?

With papers like that, was it really a wonder that people thought that every werewolf was a monster, every foreigner a criminal, every person with a different religion a cult-obsessed killer?

 _'Maybe that's where I should start,'_ Harry thought.  _'Subtly. I need the co-operation of some magazine. I wouldn't declare anything drastic right away… It works best when an idea is thrown out there and people would get their time to think about it… get used to it… Heck, I could simply start by focusing on offering the complete, unbiased truth of what happens. Introducing thoughts of equality could come later.'_

Harry reached for a piece of parchment and wrote down a note about looking into the option of using media to his advantage. He'd have to divide h is cases and recruit people at some point – there was simply too much for him to handle on his own. It would be dangerous, but what did Harry have to lose anymore? His own life? He honestly couldn't bring himself to worry about that right now.

 _'It's not like people would even have to know that it's me behind this,'_ Harry thought.  _'Who knows that I'm behind one idea doesn't have to know that I'm behind other ideas. I just need to… I need advice. I don't know how to deal with people. I don't know anything about how to be a politician.'_

Yet another thing he'd need to talk about with Albus.

Harry had  _tried_ to understand all of what politics involved, but there was so much that didn't make sense to him. He had read many books, even the mind-numbingly boring tome _Politics of the Proper and Pure_ by Pius van Houten, but nothing had given him the answers he needed.

The boy didn't look up from his notebook when he heard someone walking nearby, coming closer by the step – it'd be either his father or Sirius anyway.

"Harry."

Harry looked up then, to see James standing there, looking awkward and tired and  _old_. The man had lost weight and was very pale and he hadn't bothered to even shave for quite a while.

"Yes?" Harry asked, wondering when he had started to think of his father as 'James' anyway. When, during these past days, had James the father turned into James the man, James the Death Eater, James the husband-of-Lily… and most of all: James the widower.

But not James-the-father. Not anymore.

Not that Harry didn't know that James was his dad, and  _of course_ he loved him still, but he didn't feel as if he still had the father he could depend on. The father who had  _been_  there.

"I'm going with Sirius to France," James said. "He thinks it'd do me some good to leave the country. Do you want to come with us?"

"No thank you," Harry replied evenly. "I can manage being here on my own. The house-elves will clean and prepare the food and I'm well capable of making… sensible decisions."

"I contacted Gringotts yesterday," James continued. "Siri's idea. I know you're a smart boy, Harry, so I'll leave you the key to your vault. It's not the Family vault, obviously, but it does have quite a few galleons in it. So… if you need to get anything during my absence… you can. I put five hundred galleons there, just in case. Should cover for the whole summer holiday if I don't return before you go back to school."

"Thank you," Harry said. "I'll see you… when I see you, I guess. Take care."

"You too," James replied, hunching his shoulders and turning away. Harry stared at the spot where his father had been, and couldn't… didn't  _want_  to believe the conversation that had just happened. He'd be alone in the manor, feeling even more like the orphan he was now.

What would he do in an empty house, on his own? Sure, he and his father hadn't interacted much and whenever James made an appearance it was so very depressing, but... Did he want to be alone?

The decision was made for him when, on the evening of the next day, an owl with dyed feathers brought him a letter.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _Many little sparkly moons have passed since we last talked. I miss you dearly._
> 
> _I was at the funeral, of course, but I didn't want to make you think. You always think so much, Harry. Perhaps you should buy a pensieve? Although they can be very expensive, so how about you steal one instead? You have my full support and approval._
> 
> _When I was nine my mum died in an accident. She was experimenting with some spells and the results were less than stellar. I still wish she was here with me, or at least more than pieces in a box, but I'm no longer sad about it. You see, Harry, there are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go._
> 
> _That said, I would like to come and see you. If you have absolutely nothing against it, I'd like for you to be home tomorrow. I'll come for lunch._
> 
> _Love and livers,_
> 
> _Luna Lovegood_

*

Luna hadn't changed much, only gotten taller.

She arrived carrying a basked, her hair in a braid and a crown of sticks and flowers on her head. Her layered green and white dress and bare feet didn't make her look any less like a human-shaped forest fairy.

"Hello Harry," the girl said, smiling dreamily. "How have you been holding up?"

"I'm fine," Harry replied. "Let's go to the lounge."

"Oh, you're not fine," the small girl said, reaching for Harry's hand. "It's warm outside. Let's go see your mum."

"What?" Harry blurted, eyes widening. He hadn't even  _thought_ about going to see his mother's grave so soon, and he certainly didn't feel like doing so even now. "I don't want to."

And yet, despite his protests, he found himself following Luna, who apparently didn't mind walking outside with no shoes on.

"Such a nice weather," the girl said pleasantly as they approached the graveyard. "Perfect for telling your mum that you're not yet alright."

"It's not like she's there anymore," Harry replied sullenly.

"Of course not," Luna agreed. "But we don't know if she can hear us through it anyway, now do we?"

"I have so much I should be doing, though. Like research and stuff. I haven't even done my summer homework yet."

"Careful, darling. I understand your thirst for knowledge but don't drown in all the information. Give your mind the time it needs to process everything. Oh, here we are." And then, much to Harry's astonishment, Luna spread a blanket in front of Lily's grave, sat down and started pulling out snacks from the basket.

"A picnic?" Harry asked, disbelieving. The last time he had been there, it had been… awful. And now…

"Hello Mrs. Potter," Luna said kindly. "I'm Harry's friend, Luna."

 _'She's crazy,'_  Harry thought, but sat down next to the girl anyway. He looked at the tombstone and oddly enough didn't feel like crying. He missed his mother _so much_ , but it didn't  _hurt_ like it used to.

"Harry hasn't been doing well lately," Luna continued talking to the grave while handing a cup of tea to Harry. "He looks almost transparent, doesn't he?"

"I don't," Harry said, shaking his head. He was reluctant to admit that the weather really _was_ nice and that as bizarre as it was to have a picnic where they were at the moment… it seemed to  _help_ , in some strange way.

"Nobody is completely gone till they're forgotten and all signs of their existence have been wiped out," Luna said, reaching for a purple cupcake and offering it to her friend. "Eat, Harry. You're way too skinny."

"Like you're one to talk," Harry muttered, but did accept the offered cupcake. "Did you make these or your house-elves?"

"Oh, we don't have house-elves. I made these. Mum's recipe – she used to write all of her recipes into cards and pin them on the walls."

"When... when did you get used to the idea that your mum was, you know, gone?"

"When I realized that if I don't take care of the snacks during trips, we'd go without," Luna said. "Daddy is very bad at organizing things."

"You're weird."

"But so are you. It's not a bad thing."

"Mum," Harry said, speaking for the first time to the grave. "I'm here with the oddest girl in the world." Luna smiled, picking up a green cupcake and licking its frosting.

"I don't think I mind, though," Harry continued. "The world needs more people like you, little Luna."

"Coming from you, that means a lot," Luna replied lightly. "Eat some more. I made over sixty cupcakes."

By the time Luna left the amount of cupcakes had been significantly lessened, and while Harry felt more nauseated than ever, he also felt more content than he had for the past days.

*

Harry hadn't heard of his father for two weeks, and despite the complicated feelings he had – the anger and resentment he didn't want to admit to feeling – he was quite worried. What was James up to? What was he doing? As long as he was with Sirius, then surely he'd be alright, right?

Harry sincerely hoped so.

He had been thinking a lot about going to the train station soon, but was yet to get around to doing that. He wasn't sure, after all, when his father would come back barging in. Or when someone would visit him and not give him a chance to regain his composure or something.

He'd have to do it in a room that wouldn't be the first option for him to be found in, should someone come looking. That ruled out his own room and the library. Perhaps one of the guestrooms would be the most suitable.

"Vurney," Harry called, and the house-elf in question appeared immediately, looking at him with wide, wary eyes.

"Master Harry," the thing squeaked.

"I'll be in the third guestroom," Harry said. "If someone comes in and asks about me, tell them that I'm resting and must not be disturbed. If it's my father, then warn me before he reaches me."

"Yes, Master Harry."

 _'I wonder if I can take one of the unused rooms and turn it into a secret study or something,'_ Harry thought, on his way to the third guestroom. _'I could fill it with my own books about this research… but I don't know any good locking charms that could keep Sirius and James out if they decided to snoop. Does Fidelius work on rooms?'_

Oh well, he'd have the time to think about that later.

Harry locked the door of the guestroom behind him before lying down on the bed and clenching his eyes shut. It took him longer than usual to concentrate, but when he finally managed to focus, the sliding sensation washed over him so fast he was left breathless and nauseated for a few long moments.

Once again the first thing he became aware of was the damp coldness surrounding him, and a moment after, the sound of by-passing trains. When he opened his eyes, Harry was surprised to see considerably less people in the train station than what he had seen there before.

 _'Well, it's not like attacks happen every day,'_ Harry thought, rubbing his eyes. _'Maybe the others boarded their trains, already. Mum, too.'_

"It seems that you have learned how to come and go at will," a familiar voice said, and Harry turned to see Albus smiling at him from a bench nearby. "Come sit, Harry."

"It's been a while," Harry said, eyeing the man curiously while hurrying towards him.

"Yes," Albus replied. "You are… taller now. And far less… naïve."

"How can you tell?" Harry scoffed. "Naivety—"

"You're weary," Albus cut in. "Your face is tired and set on such a grim expression. You have… experienced loss, no? Last time I saw you here—"

"I have a lot I need to ask you," Harry interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. "I have decided to do something about the situation out there, but I have no idea how, which steps to take and what I can even do. I can't bring peace to a world I do not know how to deal with. And… and there's so much I need to ask you, about Tom Riddle, and there's this woman called Merope, and there's just so _much_ I don't  _know_ , Albus."

"Well, sit down and I can try to answer some of your questions, my boy," Albus offered. Harry nodded, and finally took a seat next to the old man.

"Are you Albus Dumbledore?" Harry asked. The old man nodded, and although at some level Harry was aware that he was talking to a supposedly great man, great wizard, he didn't feel any different. "A friend of mine quoted you at my mum's funeral. He said… that to the well-organized mind…"

"…Death is but the next great adventure," Albus continued with a warm smile. "Who is this friend of yours?"

"His name is Marvolo," Harry replied. "He's a  _very_  high-ranked Death Eater. Although… I've had my suspicions lately."

"Marvolo," Albus muttered, looking surprised. "How… peculiar. Which family—"

"Gaunt, I think he said," Harry said. "Marvolo Gaunt."

"Can you tell me about your… friendship with this person?" Albus asked, narrowing his eyes. "What does he look like? What does he tell you?"

"Well, he…"

*

"Lily was always a better parent than I could ever hope to be," James sniffed, looking at his drink. Sirius made a sympathetic sound while checking out a brunette dancing nearby.

"You're a good dad," Sirius said absently, gesturing for the barmaid to bring a few more bottles. "Really. You are."

"That's a lie," James muttered, sighing. "I'm nothing but a failure."

"I'm sure that Harry doesn't think that. Did you talk with him yet?"

"You should have _seen_ him, Sirius. I felt like I was breaking to pieces in front of him and he was so  _composed_ all the time."

"What did he say?" Sirius asked. "I mean, you did mention that you have some kind of a serious discussion before he came to Grimmauld Place that one morning. So, uh… what exactly happened? He didn't tell me any details, just said that he had been harsh with you."

"Not sure if harsh is the right word," James replied, sighing. "And I know that a lot of what he said was reasonable, but… I just can't help but feel that he's not  _feeling_  enough. As if his emotional capacity is stunted or something. Don't you think that Harry has changed vastly ever since he started his studies at Durmstrang? Maybe they taught him something strange there—"

"And how'd that make him  _feel_  any less?" Sirius snorted. "Jamie, I don't think that Harry feels any less sad than you do. But he expresses it differently."

"But you  _do_ think that Harry has changed a lot!"

"Well… yeah, I guess. He's growing up away from home and all that. I think it's just normal."

"What should I  _do_?" James groaned, reaching for a new bottle of whisky. "He even…he even told me to move on. S-said that I'd have to move on or I won't be able to live. Called me  _weak._ And you know what, Siri? Compared to him, maybe I  _am._ "

"Readjusting is a painful process, but most of us need it at one time or another," Sirius said wisely.

"So what does that have to do with anything I've said today?" James asked, looking and sounding unimpressed. Sirius grinned sheepishly.

"Uh, haha, nothing?"

"What do I  _do_?"

"Talk to him again," Sirius suggested. "This time without thinking about yourself all the time. I mean, of course tell him about how insecure you feel and all that rot, but ask him what he _wants_. What does he think he needs from you. That song and dance."

"But what if I offend him or something? I don't want him to  _hate_  me," James muttered. "I want to be a friend, not an enemy."

"Harry's got plenty of friends," Siri us said. "What he needs for you to be is a  _parent._ "

"I need to take care of him," James said, and although it was a statement, it sounded more like a question. Sirius nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! Focus on taking care of Harry! Whenever you feel dangerously depressed, do something to make Harry happy! Buy him a book or take him to a Quidditch game or something."

"Alright," James said, and for the first time ever since his wife passed away, he felt a ray of hope. Yes, maybe if he focused all of his energy on keeping Harry happy, he could somehow survive. Harry was a smart boy; he wouldn't need James to tell him what to not do or set limitations or punish him.

"I'll talk to him," James decided. "Tomorrow. Let's drink till we drop tonight, because tonight's my last night of mourning."

"That's my mate," Sirius grinned, before turning to see where the closest barmaid was. "Wench!" he yelled when he saw one. "More whisky!"

"More whisk y," James repeated, sighing quietly. "More, much more whisky."

And tomorrow he'd go to Harry.

*

"…and after that I haven't seen him," Harry said, finishing his tale about Tom.

"I believe that what you have suspected regarding his identity is true," Albus sighed after a few moments of silence. "Your  _Marvolo Gaunt_ might indeed be the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle."

"But why would he be so nice then?" Harry asked. "I mean, if he's really the Dark Lord, then… so much doesn't make  _sense_! Why does he even bother with me? Why… why did he tell me about his past? What made him notice me? There's just so _much_ that I don't _understand._ "

"The lives of you two are connected," a familiar voice joined the conversation, and startled, Harry turned to see Merope standing a few feet away from them.

"You!" Harry exclaimed, standing up. "What are you—"

"Merope Gaunt," Albus murmured. "Indeed, it seems that young Harry here is connected to Tom somehow, for you to care."

"He is," Merope confirmed, her eyes glaring at Harry. "But this child is far too confused and ignorant to understand what's going on and what he should do."

"Why won't you tell me, then?" Harry snapped, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me! Tell me about who you are, who Tom is and, heck, even who _I_ am and what I'm supposed to _do_!"

"You asked your father about when you died?" Merope wanted to know, and after a few moments of wary silence, Harry nodded.

"I was a stillborn," Harry said. "It's why I can come here, right?"

"Is it?" Merope grunted. "Is it that you can come here because you're supposed to be dead, or are you supposed to be dead because you can come here?"

"…it's not the same, is it?"

"No. And some things nobody knows. We might never know which one is the reason and which one the consequence."

"Do you know how Tom and I are connected? How do you know Tom, anyway?" Harry asked. Merope smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile at all, and Harry shivered, feeling suddenly almost scared.

"Tom has told you a lot about himself," Merope drawled. "But not everything."

 _'I'm still doubtful about if Tom is really the Dark Lord,'_  Harry thought. _'It just feels so bizarre. I think… Should I ask him?'_

"You know that Tom was an orphan," Merope started, and Harry nodded.

"Yeah… he said that his Muggle father abandoned him and his witch mother died."

"I'm that witch mother who died."

 _'What? Wait, what?'_  Harry gaped, before shaking his head and clenching his eyes shut. "There should be a limit to… shocking news. I just…" It sometimes overwhelmed him, and he wasn't sure if he knew how to  _cope_.

"Are you all right, my boy?" Albus asked.

"When the possible stops making sense, it's time to believe in the impossible," Harry muttered. Just how many times would he have to repeat those words for him to stop feeling surprised?

"That's a good rule to live by," Merope said, sounding bored. "You think your life is bizarre now? Just wait till I'm done explaining."

"It's alright, Harry," Albus said, patting the boy's shoulder. "At least your life is exciting."

"That's not exactly something I'm happy about," Harry said, and opened his eyes, nodding with a grim expression on his face. "All right. Start explaining."

"Let me tell you first all that there is to know about my son's life," Merope started. "Before I start telling you about your death from my point of view."

"How do you know that much anyway? I mean… you're dead, right? And most ghosts are visible if they stick around."

"Death has its secrets. Stop asking me or I'll kick you in the face."

"…yes ma'am."

*

" _I thought you said you weren't going to visit him._ "

"Because I'm  _not_ going to visit him _."_

"Really? I suppose you're clearing your schedule for tomorrow's, uh, Quidditch match? "

"Since when do I care about Quidditch?"

" _Then why are you clearing your schedule for it?_ "

"I'm not clearing my schedule for it!"

" _For what, then?_ "

"For… for… just in case," Tom snapped, glaring at Nagini who was rolling on the carpet. "Vanish from my sight."

" _I want to see the dead-alive boy,_ " Nagini whined. " _I want to. I want to. I want to._ "

"I don't care about what you want."

" _But you're going to see him?_ "

"No!"

" _Yes you are._ "

"No, I am  _not_."

" _Yes, you are._ "

"I said I'm not going to see him, Nagini."

" _You are._ "

"This is juvenile," Tom hissed, turning away from the snake. "But  _fin_ e, since you seem to be so fixated on the issue – I'll go and see him tomorrow."

" _Oh sure, be my guest and use me as an excuse. Are you going to tell your dead-alive boy that bad old Nagini forced you to drop by?_ "

"Amusing."

" _But in all seriousness,_ " Nagini said, lifting her head up from the carpet. " _You need to stop letting the dead-alive boy throw you off your game. You've been distracted lately._ "

"Which is why I need to talk with the brat," Tom said. "I need to… establish his position or something. See if I should… think about ways to, uh, take him out of the picture."

" _Kill him?_ "

"More like… keep him out of the way."

" _And if you can't?_ "

"He's still young. I don't need to think about that yet."

Tom was going to seek Harry and have a word or two with him first. He'd go visit the boy and talk with him – surely the brat was going to be at home? If not, then Tom would just wait for him to return.

If the boy didn't want to be a Death Eater, then what? Tom knew that he'd never hire advisors - fake or genuine - and even if he did, he wouldn't hire an advisor with such strong feelings about right and wrong. Especially if they tended to make sense, like Potter often did.

Tom didn't need or want anyone with a conscience around him.

Tomorrow, he'd go to talk with the boy and finally decide what to do. He hated being unsure and since the situation didn't seem to get solved on its own, he was going to solve it himself.

By force, if necessary.

…and maybe with a bottle of spiked firewhisky.


	15. Chapter 15

After Merope had finished telling him about the life of Tom Riddle up 'til the moment he became Lord Voldemort, Harry sat in silence for a long time. He almost couldn't bring himself to believe all of what he had been told. He was overwhelmed by the achievements of the Dark Lord. Had Tom… had that man really been the one to do all  _that_? It seemed so unbelievable. Horcruxes, murders, immortality, dark magic… it just didn't sound…  _real_.

"Are you sure you that we're talking about the same person?" Harry asked skeptically. "The Tom you're describing sounds so… bitter, angry, and cruel. My Tom isn't—"

"There are different sides to people," Merope replied curtly. "People can hide  _monsters_  behind smiles."

"Tom isn't a monster!"

"Not to you, not  _with_ you, he isn't," Albus agreed, "but I'm afraid that all you'll need to do to see what Voldemort believes in is to take a look at the laws that uphold the Wizarding World right now. The system that values those laws above justice."

"You can't blame one man for the faults of the whole system," Harry snapped, scowling. "I mean, _sure_ , I don't agree with what's going on and yes, if Tom really is the Dark Lord then he's responsible for a lot, but not  _everything_."

"And that's why you're going to help him," Merope said, sounding strangely pleased.

"Help him in what!" Harry snapped loudly, feeling a surge of irritation. "I was planning on doing what I can to stop the war and bring some sense of equality, one way or another. How can I… why are you asking so  _much_ from me? I can't do this! I still doubt that I can actually accomplish what I'm _trying_ to do!"

"Don't let what you can't do stop you from doing what you can do," Albus said lightly.

"Your mother died because of this war," Merope said bluntly. "Who's going to die next? Your father? A friend? War is not a game, Harry Potter. If _you_ don't stop it, then no one will."

"Why _me_!" Harry all but shrieked. "Why me! Why did you choose  _me_ to do this! Why is this all happening to me!"

"It had to be someone," Merope replied. "You're not special on your own, Harry Potter. You are special because the circumstances made you so."

"I don't understand," Harry groaned, clenching his eyes shut and trying to not let the desperation overwhelm him. There were so many questions without answers inside his head. Why did Merope make him live? Why did Tom tell him about his… about the Dark Lord's past? Had he ever told anyone else before? What did he see in Harry, for him to seek Harry's company and— did he know about the wand? Ah, his thoughts were swirling, and Harry couldn't focus on anything. He was starting to feel a dizzy.

"That's a lot to take in, I suppose," Albus sighed. "Go back home, Harry. Rest and think. You still have time. Many hours must have passed since you appeared here, and someone might be missing you already."

"Hah? You can't just… Look, there's still so much I need to know!" Harry exclaimed, although he did believe that he had spent the whole night at the train station. "Merope promised to tell me about my death from her point of view."

"If unfulfilled promises were nooses, we'd all be hanging before turning seventeen," Merope said wisely. "I'll tell you when you come back here again, Harry Potter. But now, you must return to your own existential dimension."

Harry looked at her for a while, silently, wondering if he really should go before getting the explanation he wanted from her. Then again, to be fair, she had already given him a lot to think about. All of which concerned Tom. He'd have to spend a lot of time trying to understand, trying to accept that maybe his Tom really was the Dark Lord.

The boy didn't resist the pull of magic as it snatched him away from the train station. He was, instead, trying to make sense of the strange feeling of… disappointment and dread inside him. If Tom really was the Dark Lord… then all the terrible, unjust things that had happened… The pointless executions, the racist speeches… had Tom really…?

Did Tom know about Harry's wand? When he had found Harry in the Durmstrang Library all that time ago… what had he even been doing there?

" _I was merely observing_ ," the man had said. His surprise when Harry had called him "Tom"– the name of the Dark Lord. Tom had red eyes. Wasn't there a rumour that the Dark Lord's eyes were red, too? And in the beginning, when Harry had told Tom about the rumours regarding war… then he had received a letter from Sirius saying that the Dark Lord had been told by someone that there were rumours going around. Harry had assumed that Tom had told the Dark Lord, but what if that wasn't the case? What if it had been  _Harry_ who told Tom who  _was_ the Dark Lord?

> _"Karkaroff said that it's very advanced there. And you know that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the seventh year students himself, don't you?"_

Bright sunlight indicated clearly that not only had Harry spent his entire night with the dead, but that it was well into the morning by now. Harry, who hadn't moved from his position on the bed even after he came back from the train station, clenched his eyes shut and cringed when he remembered the words Sirius had said years ago. And then he remembered something else, too. A conversation between him and Tom.

> _"Why are you here?"_
> 
> _"Giving a guest appearance and testing out the older students."_

How come Harry hadn't  _noticed_ all this?

Did Tom tolerate Harry just because Harry had his brother wand? Because right now, most of what Harry could remember about their past conversations was somehow… dangerous. Suddenly relevant. Harry had been careless, obviously, when talking with Tom, even if he hadn't noticed it at the time.

> _"Do you think you could ever serve the Dark Lord?"_

Tom had asked Harry that, hadn't he? He had asked Harry about his views on death, war, Death Eaters, life after death and the more Harry thought about it, the more… wrong it all felt. How stupid had he been, to carelessly just reply to everything! Had Tom been using him all this time? For what purposes? Did the man  _know_ about Harry's ability? That was impossible, wasn't it?

What if? But what if not? Could it be? Was it? Was it not?

At the funeral, though, Tom hadn't done anything suspicious to him. Harry had been very vulnerable back then and all Tom had done was… comfort him. Had that been just a ruse to make Harry trust him? What was it? Why did the man have to be so complicated?

 _'I wonder what will happen once we meet again,'_ Harry thought, opening his eyes and sitting up on the bed.  _'I guess I'll avoid him 'til I know what to do. Oh Merlin, what would I even say if he appeared now? Something completely stupid, I bet. '_

Just then, a house-elf popped in.

*

 _'I just came waltzing in,'_ Tom thought disapprovingly.  _'The brat needs better wards. Someone will murder him in his sleep if they're not fixed.'_ He glared at a trembling house-elf that squeaked something or other and then vanished, presumably to fetch the boy. Well, at least Harry was home. If the brat hadn't been there, then Tom would have… done something. He wasn't sure what exactly, but he knew that it wouldn't have been pleasant.

"You." The word was said breathlessly, almost disbelievingly. Tom turned to look at Harry and frowned. The brat looked exhausted, pale, and messy. The expression on his face seemed to be frozen to show some kind of… horror and shock? What for?

"You look terrible," Tom said. "Do I really have to ask you about your sleeping and eating habits?"

"You're the Dark Lord," Harry blurted out, and Tom tried very hard to pretend that his grimace was a pleasant smile.

"Well…" he started, setting the bottle of spiked firewhisky onto the table and nodding approvingly when two glasses appeared. " _Well._ "

"The first time we met," Harry continued, still standing at the doorway, "I called you simple-minded."

"And told me to not think on my feet lest I fall down and injure myself," Tom continued, sounding reluctantly impressed. Harry closed his eyes, and for a moment, the Dark Lord thought that the boy would pass out. Eventually, the child opened his eyes again and moved to sit down on one of the chairs in the lounge they were in. Tom, wary, sat down as well.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Harry asked, sounding desperate and confused. "You have had so many chances and so many reasons. Why haven't you? Is there a reason? Is… I just… And why didn't you deny it? You've been hiding it so far; why didn't you just tell me that I'm being stupid and that you're not  _him_!"

"What does it matter?" Tom sighed. "I have my reasons for doing what I do." Usually. Most of the time. Sometimes. Okay fine: that was what he said when he had no idea what the hell he was doing but didn't want to admit it.

"This is insane," Harry said, and alarmed, Tom looked at the boy sharply. Why was the brat sounding tearful suddenly? He wasn't going to cry, was he? He had absolutely  _no_ reason to cry! The boy was, however, hiding his face behind his hands, and his hunched shoulders didn't  _seem_  to be shaking.

"The truth won't change regardless of whether or not you like it," Tom said, pouring some firewhisky into the two glasses on the table. He wasn't, of course, going to drink his own– the whiskey was doused with a modified calming draught that should work to make the boy agreeable and talkative.

"This is too much," Harry said, clenching his eyes tightly shut behind his palms. "This is  _too much._ "

"What—?"

"Are you really the Dark Lord?"

"Didn't we already—"

" _Are you_?"

Tom stared silently at Harry for a few moments, his mouth slightly open, before swallowing and nodding. "Yes. I am."

"Then why are you so _nice_  to me?" Harry asked, finally looking at Tom. His green eyes were wide and… Well, not deranged exactly, but Tom did wonder fleetingly if the boy's sanity was under pressure of some kind. Perhaps Tom wouldn't need the spiked whiskey after all. Harry didn't seem to be up for any mind games anyway.

"I… have been alive for many, many decades," Tom finally replied, sitting down again. "I've seen thousands of people, achieved more than anyone else. I won't say that I'm bored, because there's still plenty to keep me entertained. The Rebels, general politics, that kind of things. You could say that there are many  _situations_ , numerous  _occurrence_ s, several _tasks_ that prevent me from dying out of sheer boredom, but when it comes down to  _people…_  I find them lacking."

"I think you told me something along those lines a long time ago," Harry said quietly. "Remember? When we met in Hogsmeade."

"Yes," Tom said softly. "People… always seek the easy way out. If anything is difficult or complicated or doesn't go as planned, they complain and whine and might leave the task unfinished. People judge, people think they're better than their superiors; they're never satisfied with what they have and demand more, more, and more. People are  _slaves_ to their desire to impress one another. They are so simple and weak and easy to figure out. Don't get too arrogant now, and I do  _not_ think of you as my equal, but you, in my eyes, are superior to the rest of them."

"How so?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I don't understand you. I can't figure you out."

"Well yes, that's mutual."

"That's pleasant to know," Tom said, leaning back on the chair and staring at Harry. "As I told you, I don't think you're my equal– I don't  _have_ equals. But… you might be the closest equivalent to what equal could be."

"You're the Dark Lord," Harry muttered again. Tom scowled.

"Yes, didn't we already establish that fact?"

"You're not as pompous as I thought you'd be."

"I'm never pompous. I simply know my position. I thought that you'd be far more scared, though."

Harry bit his lip and shrugged, then nodded. "I… don't know. I think I will be, as soon as I manage to wrap my mind around it. I… this is ridiculous. You're unbelievable. Are you  _sure_ you're the Dark Lord? Well, of course you are. And you don't want to kill me?"

"No, although, if you keep repeating yourself, I just might. You look exhausted, by the way. You should probably go to sleep," Tom said, watching Harry yawn and rub his eyes.

"And you look kind of pretty," the boy mumbled sleepily, making the Dark Lord's mouth fall open in shock. "I thought you'd be plenty uglier."

" _Excuse me!_ "

"Oh my God, you're the  _Dark Lord_."

"For Merlin's sake, boy!" If Tom hadn't already accepted the fact that he didn't understand Harry Potter, he would have done so now as the boy suddenly, for no apparent reason, burst out laughing. Granted, there might have been a slightly hysterical undertone to the laughter and it didn't last long. "How did you find out anyway?"

"I figured it out," Harry replied after he had calmed down. "I should have noticed it sooner. Are you going to kill me now, though?"

"What is it with you and getting killed?" Tom asked. "Do you  _want_ me to kill you?"

 _"_ That's not it, I just… I don't know how to…," Harry sighed, shook his head and stood up, walking stand in front of Tom. "How am I supposed to treat you?"

 _"_ The way you've been treating me so far, I suppose," Tom said calmly. In all honesty, he himself didn't know what was going to happen next between him and Harry– he hadn't expected revealing his identity to go quite like  _this_. "Although we might still want to keep this a secret. _"_

"It's not like anyone would believe me anyway," Harry muttered and leaned forward to press his forehead against Tom's. "Thank you, though. Considering how busy you probably are all the time, you still came to my mum's funeral."

"I'm glad that you're being calm and reasonable about this," Tom admitted, moving his hands to rest on Harry's hips. "It's quite a shock, I'm sure."

And that was the scene James Potter walked in on.

*

Sirius had woken him up at eight in the morning, kicked him into the shower, and told him to clean himself up. By the time it was eight o'clock, James looked more than presentable. He felt better, too. As if he had survived some kind of a dark cloud and finally left it behind.

"Do you want me to tag along when you go to Harry?" Sirius asked.

"No," James replied after a few moments of silent contemplation. "I think… I'll try to do this alone. I'm… scared, though. I feel like I might throw up after all."

"Did you drink the hangover potion yet?"

"Yeah. Drank it as soon as I could move, actually."

"Good. Now go there, talk to him again, and don't lose your temper, no matter what," Sirius advised. "Don't make him feel as if you're judging him or that you're angry at him.  _Listen_ to him. Be honest."

"And if he—"

"If you mess up again and he disowns himself, I'll do something. Trust me."

"Okay," James said, nodding a few times. "Okay. I'll go home and… talk to him. I'll see you later."

James had thought that he'd find Harry in the library. Or perhaps in his own room, studying or something. Maybe even flying outside. He had not, however, expected to find his son in the main lounge with a strange man that looked to be only slightly younger than James. Far too old to be a friend of Harry's in any case. The situation was  _not_  made better by the fact that Harry was standing too close–  _much_ too close– to this stranger whose hands were on Harry's hips.

"What," James croaked, and at the sound of his voice, Harry took a step away from the man who was still sitting on the couch. "Who is this, Harry?" The words  _'and why are you so close to him'_ were left unsaid as James battled inwardly between staying calm and pulling out his wand because  _ohmerlinwasthatapaedophile!_

"Put that wand away," the man ordered firmly, and James narrowed his eyes. Red eyes? Who had red eyes these days? Aside from vampires and some nutjobs with issues.

"I'm not in danger, dad," Harry said, smiling awkwardly. "Really."

"Really," James repeated, wholly unconvinced. "Then tell me why an adult man was molesting you."

" _Excuse me!_ "

"What!" Harry's mouth was hanging open as he stared at his father in shock and disbelief. The man on the couch sighed and stood up, pushing Harry to sit instead.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding," the man said in what probably was supposed to be a soothing manner. Instead, he came across as condescending. "However, I'm reluctant to explain myself to you."

"Wait, Tom," Harry started, looking alarmed.

"Who the hell—," James started at the same time.

" _Stupefy,_ " said the red-eyed man.

*

"You stunned my father," Harry groaned, rushing to kneel next to James's stunned body. "You  _stunned_  my  _father!_ "

"Next, I'm going to obliviate him," Tom said, looking satisfied with himself.

"Obliviate me, too," Harry snapped, scowling, before he sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Oh Merlin, I need a vacation."

"It's your summer holiday, boy," Tom reminded him. "This  _is_ vacation." Harry stared at him silently for a few moments with a strange expression on his face. Then he let out a sound that was either a sob or a giggle– Tom wasn't quite sure– before he burst out laughing. Or crying. Or maybe both. There were tears and there was giggle-sobbing, how was Tom supposed to know what to call it?

"This is vacation," Harry repeated, laughing so hard that his whole body was shaking. "This…  _is…_  vacation!"

 _'Did I say something strange?'_  Tom wondered.  _'Should I make him drink that firewhisky after all? Or should I stun him too? Firewhisky first.'_

Tom turned towards the table where the bottle of whiskey and two glasses full of the liquid were. He reached first for one of the glasses before changing his mind and grabbing the bottle instead. Then he kneeled next to Harry and, after a moment of hesitation, grabbed the back of boy's head and poured some whiskey into his open mouth. He then forced the boy's mouth shut and told him to s wallow.

Harry, of course, in order not to choke, swallowed.

"What  _is_ that?" the boy croaked with tears in his eyes, before sneezing a few times. "Oh Merlin, it's  _dreadful._ It  _burned!_ "

"Really," Tom said and repeated the process, forgetting that Harry, as a twelve-year-old boy, was most definitely  _not_ used to drinking firewhisky. In the end, Tom ended up with a very drunk Harry who was giggling and… giggling some more.

"I could use the sobering charm," Tom muttered, staring at the boy for a few long moments before he sighed and shook his head– the sobering charm would make the boy vomit, and he'd throw up Tom's carefully prepared potions, too. "Why do you always mess up my plans, little Potter?"

"Wheee," Harry said, allowing himself to be carried to the couch. Tom sighed, shaking his head again. Why did the boy make him always feel so chaotic? None of this was supposed to happen! The boy wasn't supposed to have discovered Tom's identity on his own and his father wasn't supposed to barge in on them like that. And the man had called him a  _molester!_

A molester! Tom had never been called  _anything_ as appalling before! And he had been called  _many t_ hings so far in his lifetime.

 _'I'm going to obliviate him and keep him stunned 'til Harry recovers,'_ Tom decided and proceeded to do so, not stopping for a moment to think that perhaps Harry would have preferred not having the Dark Lord mess around in his father's mind. Either way, after Tom was done, the man refocused on the drunken boy who was still muttering and giggling quietly as if he was telling himself a story of some kind. Oh well, Tom was there for business, not for fun, and he was done playing considerate.

"Harry," Tom said quietly, sitting on the couch and pulling the boy to rest his head on Tom's lap. The potions should have worked by now, and all Tom could do was hope that the firewhisky wouldn't make the boy's words too slurred to be understood. "Harry, are you awake?"

"Eehhh?"

"Remember when we talked about the war?" Tom said pleasantly, his hand touching the side of Harry's face gently. "Remember when we talked about the war, Harry?"

"Mmm _yeeeesss…_ "

"And the Death Eaters? Do you remember when we talked about the Death Eaters?"

"Yeeaahh… m' dad's a…  _dether._ "

"And you, Harry? Do you want to be a Death Eater like your father?"

"Can't," Harry mumbled and yawned. "Woulda been ees, easy, easier."

"Why can't you be a Death Eater, Harry?" Tom asked carefully, wishing that he could have added Veritaserum into the mix. Unfortunately, though, the serum was known to sometimes react badly with alcohol.

"Can't," Harry repeated, sounding sad, and something in his tone and the way he spoke now made Tom remember how  _young_ the child he was interrogating actually was. "I can't, Tommy," Harry said and turned to press his face against Tom's stomach.

 _'What am I supposed to do?'_ Tom thought, not even noticing how his own fingers were now combing Harry's hair. "I don't think I'll get you drunk again if you're going to be sad all the time."

"Gotta… gotta  _save_ you, Tommy," Harry mumbled, and after a few moments of silence, the boy started sobbing again. Tom sighed, leaning back on the chair couch and relaxing.

"I give up," the man muttered, keeping his fingers entangled in the boy's hair even after Harry had stopped crying. "For Merlin's sake, Harry Potter, I'm never again making any plans that involve you. You're not even making sense anymore. Who even told you that I'm the Dark Lord?"

"M'rope," Harry replied before he yawned. The boy, in his intoxicated state, didn't realize that the name had caused Tom to tense, and the man's red eyes widen in shock. The answer now was different from the reply he h ad gotten earlier.

"What?" Tom hissed, glaring down at Harry. " _What_ did you just—  _How—_  What? Potter, wake up this instant!

"Shh," the boy said, turning his face up towards the Dark Lord while reaching to pat the man's cheek with his hand. "Evere… everything is gonna be, gonna be okay, hm? I'll take care of you, Tommy. Whassamatter? I'll take care of you."

"Idiot," Tom whispered numbly. He was feeling strange. He shouldn't even be there. Why had he wanted to meet Potter again? The longer he kept the boy alive, the more dangerous everything became. He didn't want to change; he didn't want to… to not want to kill someone. He couldn't leave things as they were– Tom knew that he had to do something about Harry, but he wasn't sure what exactly. The boy had said  _Merope,_ hadn't he? Where did he get that name from? Unless Tom's suspicions had been correct and Harry really  _could_ speak to the dead.

If that was the case, then Tom would have a good, solid reason for not letting the boy leave his sight.

Not that he _wanted_ to keep an eye on Harry all the time or anything. But… just in case.

 _'There has to be a way to solve this problem and get all the answers that I want,'_ Tom thought, frowning.  _'Brainwash the boy? If only I could just imperio him… but that'd be too risky. If this goes on, I'll be left with no options but to use legilimency on him.'_  And even though Tom was more than ready to blame Harry if he ever was to do that– because clearly, Harry and his stubbornness were to blame– he doubted that the boy would share that belief and accept the blame quietly.

No, Tom couldn't force Harry because then he'd be expecting the boy to somehow figure out how to betray him, and Tom would exhaust himself with paranoia while waiting for that to happen. No, there had to be something else. He had to make Harry want to obey him… He had to make Harry feel honour-bound, obligated to obey him. There had to be some way for that to—

 _Ah_.

Tom relaxed slightly, smirking as the plan started to form in his mind. Feeling better now that he had something he could do, the man called a house-elf to point him towards Harry's room. He then carried to boy to lie on his bed. James Potter was still lying on the floor, obliviated and unconscious. Tom did think about what to do with the man before deciding to just leave him as he was– Harry could try to explain his way out of that one. The brat deserved some trouble anyway for making Tom feel so strange all the time.

 _'I need to make some research about life-debts,'_ the Dark Lord thought as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder.  _'And after that happens and I have him under my complete control, I'll interrogate the information out of him. Every bit of it.'_

Because Tom hated feeling confused and not knowing.

*

Harry woke up feeling awful.

He felt incredibly nauseated, the ceiling wouldn't stay still, and there was a general atmosphere of dread. His head and eyes hurt, and it took him quite a while before he realized that he was in his room. What had  _happened_ to him? Was this some kind of a curse? Or a reaction to a prolonged stay at the train station? Merope hadn't told him about his death despite what she had promised. Instead, she had told him that Tom, his Tom, was the Dark Lord—

Oh Merlin.

Harry was gradually remembering what had happened earlier that day. Tom had been there. They had… talked?  _Had_ they talked? Harry wasn't sure, but he vaguely remembered his father barging in and accusing Tom of being a molester. Accusing the  _Dark Lord_ of being a child molester… Harry would laugh at the absurdity of it if it wasn't so terrifying. And then Tom had… obliviated James and stunned him. Or had he stunned James first and then obliviated him? Did he  _reall y_ obliviate James? Harry remembered that Tom had stunned his father, and then he had made Harry drink something…

He had made Harry drink something.

Oh yes, Harry remembered the awful, burning liquid. It must have been an alcohol of some kind.  _The bottle!_ Tom had brought a bottle with him, hadn't he? Had the man planned on getting Harry drunk? What for? Just what had they talked about for him to decide to do something like that?

 _'All this thinking is making my head hurt,'_ Harry thought and cringed when he heard the door of his room opening.

"Harry?" James said, walking towards the bed. "You awake now? Good. Drink this, it's a hangover potion. You, er, you have a  _lot_ to explain."

 _'If he's really been obliviated, I'll have to come up with a believable story,'_ Harry thought, slowly sitting up and accepting the potion.  _'If he hasn't, then, well… I could say that Tom is a teacher. Someone from Durmstrang who came to… talk to me about coursework. And he's a bit eccentric and simple-minded so… '_

James sat down on the bed and looked at his son, wondering if the boy had tried to drink because of him. He had been bad influence, and perhaps Harry had thought that James encouraged getting drunk. How was he supposed to fix this misunderstanding? If only Lily—

 _'I'm not going to think about her now,'_ James told himself before focusing on Harry again. "Why were you drunk?"

"Do I really have to tell you?" Harry asked, feeling sick. Sure, his father didn't  _look_ angry, but… what if he was just barely holding back some simmering rage?

"Yes," James replied. "And you'll also explain why I was unconscious in the lounge."

"I was practicing a spell," Harry said, the lie slipping out before he had even realized that he had thought about it. "The, um, sobering charm. But something went wrong, and it hit you when you arrived into the lounge and knocked you unconscious. Then it flung back at me and made me sick. Drunk. Sick." Harry's heart was beating rapidly, and he was  _so sure_ that James would realize that he was lying.

Lucky for Harry, though, James was caught up thinking about  _why_ Harry would feel the need to learn the sobering charm, ending up feeling guilty and responsible. He shouldn't have gotten so recklessly drunk in front of his son and so frequently, too. He shouldn't have… And James knew that while he'd try to not repeat his mistakes, it'd be very difficult because… Lily wasn't there and he missed her. Didn't know how to  _live_ without her.

It was easy to  _tell_ him to move on. It was hard– but doable– for him to  _think_ about living his life, taking care of Harry and getting over Lily. But when it came down to actually putting theory into practice… he just…  _couldn't._

Lily would know–  _would have known_ – what to do now. Should James leave Harry to sleep some more? Should he offer to make the boy something to eat? Was he supposed to stay at home or something? Harry was just hungover, not sick, so maybe James should just… ignore this?

 _'Sorry, Sirius,'_ James thought,  _'but I don't think that there's a reason for me to talk with Harry about what happened after all. I wouldn't even know what to say._ ’

Harry, on his part, felt increasingly awkward due to the reigning silence. He looked at James and couldn't help but… prefer being alone. The twinge of guilt he felt due to that wish did nothing to lessen it though, and he wondered if he could ever again feel at ease with his father. It wasn't that Harry loved James any less, of course, but… a connection that had been there before his mother's death… was now severed. James and Harry were a father and son, but for the life of him, Harry couldn't consider them a  _family_ anymore.

"I'll be returning to work in a few days," James said suddenly. "Harry… I…"

"I'll be able to take care of myself," Harry assured him.

"That's not it," James sighed, shaking his head. "I'm just… sorry. I'm failing as a parent, aren't I?"

"That's not—"

"Don't lie to make me feel better. Just promise me, Harry, if you ever need anything… you won't hesitate a second before contacting me, alright? Please, promise me that." Harry stared at James's grim and serious expression for a few moments before nodding.

"I promise."

Three days after that, James rejoined the Death Eater army in Ireland.

*

On his 13th birthday, Harry was alone at home. He didn't mind– to him, this day was just as good as any other for him to return to the train station. He still had to ask Merope to tell him about his death from her point of view, and he needed to organize his plans– he  _really_  needed to know and make it clear to himself what he should be doing next.

"Don't let anyone come in," Harry said to the house-elf Vurney before heading towards his room. He was eager to go back to the train station, but he was worried about the possibility of someone trying to barge in. Harry knew that he should probably wait for a few days more and think about how to handle Tom– how to act around the man and just… what to  _do_ – but his thoughts kept circling around unsolvable problem points that were driving him insane.

Such as, Tom being Lord Voldemort… meant that  _Tom_  was actually Harry's opponent. And to think that Merope wanted Harry to save Tom while Albus wanted him to save the world  _from_ Tom. Just what was he supposed to do? Unless saving Tom would somehow contribute to saving the…world?

 _'This is ridiculous,'_ Harry thought, taking a deep breath and lying down on his bed. _'I'll leave saving the world to heroes and supremely powerful people with enough ambition and skills. I'll focus on something less challenging. Something smaller.'_

It was with notable ease that he could now go to the train station. The resistance, the pull back to the living world that had been almost impossible to fight against was now nothing but a tug– nothing he wouldn't be able to control if he cared enough to do so. Breathing there, however, wasn’t getting any easier.

Harry arrived just in time to see a train leave from the station. He wondered absently if Lorenzo had left in a train like that, if he had perhaps left in the same train as Harry's mother. And where did these trains go, exactly? He had tried to board one not so long ago– had Merope not stopped him, what would have happened?

 _'Maybe that's one more thing I should ask her about,'_ Harry thought, seeing the woman standing alone in the distance and walking towards her. Harry wondered where Albus was; were there parts of this station that he wasn't aware of? Probably yes, Harry hadn't ever really looked around in this place, and not just because he had always been busy doing something.

The place was creepy. Harry felt nervous being alone, and he walked faster towards Merope.

"You shouldn't come here so often," Merope said as soon as he was within earshot. "It's taxing to your body and spirit."

"Where's Albus?" Harry asked. "And I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Dumbledore is doing something or other; I don't care enough to find out," Merope replied coolly. "However, your assumption about you being fine– or that you  _will be_  fine– is wrong. The air around here isn't suitable for a living human."

"I can breathe just fine." The lie slipped out too fast for Harry to catch it.

"Oh yes, and every time you inhale, particles of this unholy air here enter your body and  _stay there._ "

 _'Is that why I can come here easily, now?'_  Harry thought suddenly, before shrugging. He hadn't come here for that this time. "Very well, I'll be more careful about coming here. Anyway, will you finally tell me about when I died?" Merope stared at him for a long moment with a grim expression, and Harry feared that she'd deny him his request. He wasn't, however, going to leave before getting some answers.

"Fine," the woman finally sighed and gestured for Harry to sit down with her on the cold floor of the train station.

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Huh?"

"Fate, boy," Merope sneered. " _Destiny._  Pre-destined occurrences and all things included."

"Not really," Harry said hesitantly. "I mean... I'd like to believe that people can affect their—"

"Spare me that song and dance," the woman scoffed. "You don't believe in God, do you?"

"I never thought about it," Harry admitted.

"Of course, because human arrogance seldom wants to accept the fact that there's some power far superior to it. However, I am not willing to have a religious debate with you about this, so for the sake of you to understand this explanation about fate, let's say you believe in God."

"A-alright," Harry said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Religions  _always_  made him feel uncomfortable.

"The most common misconception is that destiny and fate exclude free will," Merope said, and Harry, who really didn't know what to say about that, shrugged. "As I said, that's wrong."

"What is correct, then?"

"Destiny, or fate, rather, is what God has decreed to happen."

"Doesn't that already exclude free will?"

"No. It is fate, not because it happens despite what you decide, but because it has happened already according to your choices, and God, who is not bound by time, has made that your fate."

"...I'm not sure I understand," Harry said hesitantly, and Merope let out an irritated sound. She scowled at Harry before talking again.

"Fine, let me explain it to you in simpler terms. Hypothetically, God told you that, according to your father's destiny, he's going to eat tomato soup tomorrow. The next day, you see him making some tomato soup and eating it because according to him, that's what he wants. Does that make his choice fate or free will?"

"Uh... f-free will?"

"Both. It's fate because he wanted it, and God, who's not bound by time, went to the day after tomorrow, and by then, your father wanting to eat tomato soup had already happened."

"...oh."

"That's why it's said that seers are prophets. God has granted them the gift of foresight, and it's based on their ability to see the threads of fate."

"Okay," Harry said, frowning, "but... what does that have to do with me?"

"Listen and focus," Merope ordered darkly. "Once you die, some of these threads become visible if you spend years learning how to see them. I've been watching the thread of my son's fate for decades, and when you arrived, I could see your thread entwining with his. That's why I pushed you back, because I knew that that's what was meant to happen. You were supposed to die, and I was supposed to bring you back to life. That was part of our fate."

"How can I know what else I am supposed to do?" Harry asked, and the dead witch shrugged.

"I don't know," Merope replied. "What you can really do is go forward on the path you've chosen. And whatever you chose to do, boy, do it wholeheartedly. Nothing is worse than half-assed effort."

"But that's the thing," Harry said. "I'm not sure  _what_ I'm supposed to do. Albus wants me to save the whole world from Tom, and you want me to save Tom. Whichever I choose, I don't know how to start, how to proceed, how to—"

"Save Tom," Merope cut in, looking annoyed. "Save Tom, and teach him how to accept being normal. Make him understand that he doesn't have to live forever and rule the world to be accepted, loved, or respected– whatever that boy is wishing for, anyway. And by doing that, you will take the most dominate pawn off the chess board."

"And then the smaller pawns will declare wars against each other," Harry said immediately, "and there will be war for decades to come. As much as I hate some of Tom's decisions, laws, and rules, I also know that without them– without  _him_ – there would be chaos."

"How about you—"

"No," Harry cut in firmly. "I am not going to step into the limelight. I am not going to lead or rule. Not now, not ever. Maybe I could learn how to, but I don't  _want_ to."

"Then you must make someone else do it for you," Merope said. "You have to be bold, you have to be daring, and you must take risks to succeed. I told you already: half-assed effort will only get you killed. Don't let anything hold you back or make you hesitate."

"I'm just… afraid of doing something I'll regret," Harry admitted.

"Everyone does things they will regret at some point or another," Merope told him. "If you _learn_ from those mistakes, however, they have been necessary."

"I'm such a coward," Harry groaned. "I'm just too scared. I wish I wasn't afraid."

"A man with no fear isn't brave," Merope sneered. "He's just a man with no fear. A man with fear who still does what must be done is brave. Now stop being a spineless worm and do what you know you should be doing."

"I want to be brave," Harry muttered, standing up. "I just don't know how to, though."

"The next time somebody you care about dies," Merope said, "you'll wonder whether or not you could have saved them. Think about that." Harry stared at the woman for a few long moments before nodding hesitantly. He wasn't sure why he was nodding– he didn't feel like agreeing with her at all. And yet… he couldn't quite give up the thought of doing what Albus and Merope wanted him to do. Maybe he should talk with… Truls, maybe? Or Filippa?

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He was going to return back home now and think about what to do next. How many times had he told himself to stop being so hesitant about everything? How many hours had he wasted feeling confused? Nothing changed, and Harry was sure that as long as he stayed in this  _should-I-or-should-I-not_ state of his, he'd be stuck in this strange situation.

 _'Yeah,'_  Harry thought as he returned back to the realm of the living, back to his own room.  _'I'm done standing still. It's time to start walking forward.'_


	16. Chapter 16

Merope.

Tom had  _never_  expected to hear that name again. And yet, he had heard it from a boy who was so beyond Tom's understanding that he didn't know from where to start guessing how and why and when Harry Potter found out about her. How could one name, one person, one child… be so complicated?

Tom was feeling… strange. Worried? Anxious? He didn't know, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced by the fact that if he wasn't able to make Harry tell him everything, he'd just have to kill the boy. Sure, Harry was entertaining – and potentially useful – but he was an _unpredictable_ pawn, and if the Rebels became any more dangerous, then Tom wouldn't be able to afford having his attention divided between two potentially disastrous things.

Between entertainment and survival, Tom would  _always_  choose survival.

Then again, if his plan regarding the life-debt worked, then he'd have nothing to worry about when it came to the Potter boy. Tom really hoped that it would work because killing Harry Potter wasn't something he particularly  _wanted_  to do at the moment. Good entertainment was hard to come by these days.

 _'He said that Merope had told him,'_ Tom thought,  _'so he **is**  able to talk with the dead. Does he have limitations? Did he choose to talk with Merope or was it a coincidence? Who else has the boy managed to talk with? How often can he do that? Since when and how is he able to do it anyway? He doesn't seem to be the type to conspire, but I have to find out if he's up to something.'_

There was so much he'd need to find out, and yet, he couldn't. All he had been doing so far consisted of guessing and playing nice. But Tom knew himself. He knew that if he didn't find the answers soon, eventually his patience would run out, and he'd legilimence everything out of the boy's mind, not caring about the state Harry would end up in afterwards.

It would, of course, be completely Harry's fault for being difficult.

" _You're scowling again_ ," Nagini hissed, lifting her head up from inside a vase. " _Are you hungry? Or! Don't tell me… it's about that boy again._ "

"Nagini," Tom replied, "I have come to the strangely upsetting realization that I have to pick the boy's brain apart before killing him if my next plan fails."

" _Since when has torturing somebody been upsetting news to you?_ "

"It's just, he's… well, he has the brother wand of my wand. His mother died, his father isn't much of a father, and he's different from everybody else. I can't help but feel that there's a reason as to why he… exists."

" _I think he has made your world smaller_ ," Nagini hissed. " _You used to see the world and focus on the plans and schemes you had going on. Lately, it seems that all you see in this world is that dead-alive boy_."

Tom was ready to open his mouth and deny that accusation when he actually  _thought_ about it. Had Harry's presence really become  _that_ distracting? Tom knew that he was sometimes–  _rarely_ – in the bad habit of obsessing over something completely irrelevant rather single-mindedly. If that was really the case, then would making Harry his obedient servant really fix the problem? Maybe he should just stop thinking about the boy for now– simply not contact him at all for a considerable amount of time? Take a bit of distance.

Ah, he'd think about that later. Now he had some other issues to worry about– the war, for example. He had a pile of papers he needed to read and a few people to meet. Bellatrix was going to drop by soon to give her report, and her excessive groveling was something Tom wholeheartedly approved of. He liked being worshipped, and why wouldn't he? He was better than everyone else so wasn't it just  _right_ that they treated him accordingly?

 _'That's one thing Harry's yet to do,'_  Tom thought.  _'He should, though. Next time I'm going to—'_  Ah, right. He was supposed to not think about the boy anymore. Tom sighed and scowled, reaching for his cup of cooling tea.

He had much else to focus on. Things that were far more important than _Potter_.

*

Harry had almost forgotten about the birthday gifts he had received. When he finally sat down to go through the pile, he was trying hard to not think about his previous birthdays when his both parents and godfather had been present.

 _'Next year, I'll spend this day with someone,'_ Harry promised himself and grabbed the first gift, which turned out to be from Luna. Remembering the previous gift he had received from her, he felt very curious as he brought the small box closer. The gift turned out to be a pair of earrings in the shape of two purple hearts. Was Luna  _seriously_ expecting him to wear these? Hopefully not, because Harry wasn't going to.

The next gift was from Filippa: a pair of black dragonhide gloves that seemed to have a strange red glow to them. Harry wondered what his friend was doing at the moment– he hadn't seen her since his mother's funeral. Filippa was the only one who knew about Harry's ability to talk with the dead and also the only one who had told Harry about her true feelings regarding the war. Should she be the one he'd open up to about his plans first? Well, not that he had any good plans, really.

Then again, maybe he should talk to Truls first? Truls was Harry's best friend, and the thought of talking with Filippa about this kind of thing before discussing it with Truls made Harry feel as if he was betraying his best friend somehow. What if Truls was to disagree though? Could Harry even start such operations without Truls finding out at some point on his own?

 _'I'll tell Truls first,'_ Harry decided.  _'And then I'll tell Filippa. After that, maybe Luna.'_ Aside from those three, he really didn't know who else could be a potential ally. With a sigh, Harry reached for another present, smiling and shaking his head after unwrapping it to find a book titled  _How To Charm Your Clothes_ by Meredith Malkin sent to him by Gildy. Well, at least this time, it was a book and not some strange outfit.

From Sirius, Harry got a beautiful dagger that the boy couldn't help but warily admire while wondering why he had been sent such a thing. Then again, coming from Sirius, it was very likely that his godfather had simply thought something along the lines of "Shiny! Pretty!" and bought it. Jakob's gift turned out to be a book of maps, while Petronella had sent him a fancy tea-box. From Truls, Harry had received a very much appreciated collection of Grimm's Uncensored Fairytales.

Harry took care to not think of his father  _or_ his mother at all. He didn't want to think about them, didn't want to think of what had changed during this one year. How much was different now, how the loss of one person seemed to end a family of three. Harry would much rather focus on feeling surprised at the gift he had received from Björn.

It was a music box made of dark wood. On the lid, there was a silver plate onto which  _T H E R E A L W A Y S_ was engraved. When Harry opened the box, he could see two tiny white foxes playing on the surface of a mirror while a lovely melody that reminded Harry of a lullaby could be heard.

"There always," Harry murmured. "Is that the name of this song?" It was a wonderful gift– it reminded Harry of the many stories he had read so far in his life and brought a smile to his face as he held the box closer. It was surprising to receive such a gift from Björn– the boy hadn't seemed to be particularly thoughtful about things that didn't involve either money or one Mette Erling.

 _'He always says that he's going to be richest guy in the world,'_ Harry thought, chuckling.  _'It wouldn't surprise me, what with the way he deals with money. I wonder where all of us will be in ten years… Alive, I hope. Alive and well. But I doubt that I can really achieve what I need in ten short years.'_ Not to mention, what  _was_ his goal exactly? Ending the war sounded nice in theory, but to succeed in that, so many other things would have to be done.

Besides, even if the war was to end, there'd be so much else to fix. Harry wasn't interested in fixing the world, and he didn't want to ally himself with the rebels. Maybe he should work on creature equality? Remus Lupin was a prime example of potential gone waste due to prejudice. Or should he just do as Merope had told him to and focus on saving Tom?  _How_ could he save the Dark Lord anyway, and from _what_ exactly? The thought of Harry being able to do something that Lord Voldemort couldn't was ridiculous!

Then again, hadn't he made some plans just a few weeks ago about this? He'd need to find a way to secure the alliance of some magazine which he'd start using to his advantage. Subtly, with suggestions. But how? He had nothing he could offer in return, and the Daily Prophet would not only mock him but probably cause him to get into some legal trouble under the accusations of treason! Well, maybe nothing that severe but still… nothing nice. He'd have to polish that idea into a usable one.

First, he'd have to find out the aims of the Rebels and the aims of the Dark Lord and find some kind of a middle ground he could use for negotiating. Then… what would he negotiate with?  _Who_ would he negotiate with? Tom? Sure, huh. Somehow, Harry couldn't imagine the man paying attention to that kind of requests. What about the Rebels– what reason would they have to listen to him or trust him? It's not like he could just go and tell them that _Albus_ had told him to do something!

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the headache he had.

Everything felt so suffocating, and he was afraid of failing.

He just wanted to go back to Durmstrang.

*

They had been fighting since before the battle, trying to keep their guards up all the time while keeping on advancing with only a few moments of rest between the fights. James had hated these kinds of battles before– they demanded all of his concentration, all the time. Now, he was grateful about that as it prevented him from thinking of his own life's problems.

"Potter!" A familiar, annoying, squeaky voice called, and Pettigrew appeared next to him just in time to send a severing curse at a Rebel who had been trying to run away. "It has been a while, eh?"

"What do you want?" James asked sourly, scowling. Why didn't the pest leave him  _alone_? "My day was going well before I saw you."

"Why do you hate me so?" Pettigrew asked, although the hurt expression on the short man's face was clearly insincere as it faded quickly, replaced by a grin. "I heard that your wife passed away recently. I'm sorry for your loss."

"That is none of your fucking business," James growled. He didn't want to talk about Lily and especially not with Pettigrew of all people. In fact, he didn't want to talk with Pettigrew about anything at all. The man didn't even  _sound_ sorry!

"Think positively," Pettigrew continued as if he hadn't heard what James had said. "In some other universe, she could be alive." James didn't know what to say to _that_ so he simply focused on trying to see if there were any Rebels hiding nearby. He really didn't want to talk or think about anything else but this current mission he was trying to complete right now. Because if he thought about Lily, he'd end up eventually thinking about Harry, and thinking about Harry  _and_  Lily was enough to make James sick with guilt and grief.

The solution was, clearly, to not think about them. Pettigrew, however, seemed to be hell bent on making James do exactly that.

"Isn't it fascinating? The thought of alternate universes existing? Perhaps in another world, you and your wife—"

"Stop!" James growled grabbing the front of Pettigrew's jacket and lifting the short man up. "I  _don't_  want to talk about my family with  _you_ , Pettigrew. Stop hanging around me, and stop  _talking_  to me. And for the record– I don't  _believe_  in alternate universes or whatever you call them!" Seriously, no one sane would believe that kind of tripe anyway.

"Pity," Pettigrew said, not looking threatened or cowed at all. His watery blue eyes seemed to look through James in a way that left the dark-haired man feeling quite uncomfortable. "To some, the existence of alternate universes signifies the existence of second chances."

"You're mad," James hissed, letting the other man go. "I should have realized it sooner– there's something very wrong with your head. I don't care; it's none of my business. Stay away from me or I'll lose my temper with you, Pettigrew."

"Am I crazy just because you don't understand me?" Pettigrew asked with an amused grin on his face. "Is that how you define everything, James Potter?"

"I—"

"Then what about your son? You don't understand him either, you know. Is he crazy too?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" James asked, feeling confused and angry. "You don't even  _know_ Harry so don't even bother to talk about him!"

"Poor James, it must be hard," Pettigrew said mockingly, stepping away. "You're so focused on having lost your wife that you never even noticed that you lost your son long before that." With that, the man left to join some other Death Eaters, leaving James behind. James, who wasn't sure  _why_  he was suddenly feeling hollow with hurt and loneliness – because surely what Pettigrew had said, meant nothing. That annoying pest didn't even _know_ Harry and, and,  _and_  why was he so fixated on James's life anyway, huh?

"Go to hell," James yelled after Pettigrew, who didn't turn, but replied anyway right before vanishing behind the trees.

"Your son will  _always_  be destined for things greater than you can imagine."

 _'There's something going on with Pettigrew,'_ James thought, frowning.  _'I should investigate this guy… just in case.'_ Also, he should probably warn Harry that if he ever was to meet someone called Peter Pettigrew, that he should avoid the man.

Then again, Harry was soon going to go back to Durmstrang, and there, he would be safe.

*

_Dear Harry,_

_I am going to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy my school supplies. Would you like to accompany me? We could get some ice cream!_

_Love, Luna._

  1. _Wear the earrings. They deflect Wrackspurts. Your mind won't be fuzzy anymore._



Harry had smiled when he had read the message Luna had sent him. He had already owl-ordered the supplies he didn't already have and needed nothing in particular from Diagon Alley, but he had missed hanging out with Luna and here was his chance to do exactly that.

Which is why, a day later, he was in Diagon Alley, wearing black robes and boots and purple heart-shaped earrings while waiting for Luna in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. His earlobes were still aching slightly – he had had to use a spell he had found in a magazine in order to be able to wear the earrings as his ears hadn't been pierced before. He had contemplated leaving the earrings aside and apologizing to Luna, but he had then decided against that.

Unknown to whoever would see him, Harry was also wearing his manticore shirt, and the dagger he had gotten from Sirius was hidden in his right boot. The boy had decided to get himself used to carrying these two items with him as often as possible– just in case he'd even need them.

"Harry!" a familiar voice exclaimed, and Harry turned to see Ron Weasley with his family and a few friends making their way towards him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to meet a friend soon," Harry replied, before proceeding to greet everyone in the group. Mrs. Weasley hugged him and told him that if he was ever to need anything, he'd be welcome to contact her at any time. Harry smiled, feeling strangely happy with the offer even though he doubted that he'd ever really take advantage of it. He couldn't. He didn't even want to. Somehow, the thought of opening up to an older woman– not just Mrs. Weasley, but anyone at all, felt to him like a betrayal to his mother.

Harry didn't want to think about it. He wasn't sure if he could understand why, and he wasn't going to dwell on it.

"This is Neville, by the way," Ron said, pointing at a boy standing next to him, and Harry guessed that he was the Neville Longbottom Ron had told him a long time ago about. Ron's best friend. He was round-faced with blond hair and a chubby build. "Nev, this is Harry. He goes to Durmstrang."

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said, and the other boy stuttered something in response. Ron turned to Harry again.

"You're not waiting for Malfoy, are you?" Ron asked, and Harry could see Ginny Weasley grimacing when she heard the name.

"No," Harry replied. "Are you guys here to buy your school supplies?"

"Yeah," Ron sighed, nodding.

"Luna!" Ginny exclaimed suddenly. "What a surprise! How are you?" Harry felt slightly relieved at the knowledge that his friend was nearby– it was slightly awkward to stand there with Neville and the Weasleys. Why had they stopped anyway?

"Quite well, Ginevra," Luna said, her voice as dreamy as always. "Hello, Harry, you look dashing today."

"So do you," Harry grinned, turning towards the girl and stepping closer. "Your father isn't here? Shall we go then? You have your list, don't you?"

"Of course," Luna said, linking her arm with his. Harry turned to say goodbye to Neville and the Weasleys– some of whom looked quite surprised at seeing Harry with Luna– before the two started walking towards the bookstore nearby.

"How have you been?" Luna asked. "I see that you're wearing the earrings. There are no Wrackspurts on your shoulders today."

"I'm feeling better," Harry replied, looking at her. "There's something I have to do—"

"I know."

"—and I've finally gathered enough courage to start doing it."

"I'm proud," Luna smiled, patting his arm. "The courage and the will to start are very important. Always. Pity people don't appreciate them more."

"I'm scared, though," Harry admitted. He wasn't sure if Luna actually knew what he was talking about– most probably not, he hadn't told her after all– but he still felt like he could talk to her about it without actually explaining himself. "People… scare me. Their reactions… their beliefs in right and wrong… People can be so narrow-minded and prejudiced. How can I deal with that? How should I feel about them?"

"You can pity them, Harry," Luna told him softly, her blue eyes looking at something he couldn't see. "Their minds are the blindfolds that prevent their eyes from seeing the sceneries you can see. They won't even realize the existence of the roads you've walked on, they won't hear the sounds that fill your silence. Doesn't that make you... sad for them?"

"I guess, when you put it that way," Harry sighed. "But how can I make them understand?"

"There are people who will never understand," Luna said as they entered the bookstore. "There are people who will say that you are wrong even when you know you're right. You can only do your best to prove them wrong, Harry. But never let them bring you down. That aside, would you like a Quibbler?"

"A Quibbler?" Harry repeated, vaguely remembering the name. "Oh! The magazine?"

"Newspaper," Luna said, handing him a copy of the Quibbler. It was sparkly and– Harry glanced at the front page quickly– seemed to be mostly about nonsense, what with titles such as  _'Smurkling Snugglebugs Gone Rabid!'_ and _'House-elf Legless Tells Us His Amazing Story!'_.

"It looks interesting," Harry said. "Uh, very interesting. Do you subscribe?"

"Oh, no," the girl replied. "My dad owns it. He lets me help sometimes." As their arms were still linked, Luna almost stumbled when Harry stopped walking abruptly, almost knocking her against a bookshelf. Blinking owlishly, she turned to look at him.

"Your dad owns a newspaper," Harry whispered, his eyes almost glowing. "A newspaper full of wild, new theories, right?"

"Yes," Luna confirmed. "Do you want to subscribe?"

"Yeah," Harry said, feeling refreshed at this potential new opportunity. "I do."

For the rest of their trip– which tool almost the rest of the whole day– Harry was admittedly slightly distracted unless they were discussing the Quibbler. Luna didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, the girl seemed to be pleased at the interest Harry was showing in her father's work.

She didn't ask why, and Harry didn't tell her. Then again, it was Luna, so perhaps she already knew.

*

Two days before going back to Durmstrang, Harry's peaceful morning was interrupted by one Gilderoy Lockhart. Much to Harry's misery, Gildy wasn't alone– he was accompanied by Sybil Trelawney and a basket of firewhisky bottles.

"Harry!" Gildy exclaimed, rushing to hug the boy. He was dressed in tight white pants, a feathery turquoise jacket, a red shirt, and sparkly green boots. "I have missed you terribly! How are you?"

"Are you drunk?" Harry asked, smelling the whiff of alcohol on the man, who smiled dazzlingly at him.

"I don't like to do things sober anymore," Gildy said before letting go of Harry, sashaying towards the closest chair and sitting down. The basket of firewhisky bottles floated after him. Trelawney also, looking like a junkie from Knockturn Alley, stumbled after him, pausing only to put a battered flower wreath on Harry's head. A dead bee fell on the floor, and Harry spent half a second watching it with horror before a house-elf took it away.

"What are you two doing here?" the boy asked warily, wondering if he should call his godfather to do some damage control. Then again, Gildy was mostly harmless and Trelawney didn't seem the type to do anything violent. Besides, Harry had his wand, the manticore shirt,  _and_  the dagger.

Just in case.

"You're going back to Durmstrang soon," Gildy said, conjuring a few empty glasses. "Let's celebrate!" Harry cringed, remembering the last time he had ended up drinking. He did  _not_  want a repeat performance, and so he just shook his head and sat on a chair as well, taking care to sit as far away from the two adults as he could.

"So Barty's going back to Durmstrang too," Gildy started after a few moments of silent drinking, and Harry felt as if he should have figured that that would be Gildy's main topic. "I can't  _believe_  that he's just going to leave me behind like  _nothing_ happened between us."

"Nothing happened between you two," Trelawney pointed out while rolling a joint.

"Compassion, Sybil. It won't kill you."

 _'Figures that he's whining about Courch. These two are obviously planning on getting smashed,'_ Harry thought, eyeing the two with disapproval.  _'I wonder if Trelawney will have a fit if I throw this wreath away. Ah, I better wait 'til she's too drunk to notice. I really don't have the energy to deal with any scenes now. Why did they come here, anyway?'_

"Professor Crouch still hasn't caved in, huh," Harry said, and Gildy sniffled loudly.

"Maybe he hates me because I'm blond," the man wailed.

"That xenophobic little shit!" Trelawney bellowed suddenly before gulping down what seemed like half a bottle of firewhisky. Harry was torn between feeling disgusted and awed. He settled for feeling reluctantly respectful.

"You won't be doing coitus with him if you keep on failing like this," Trelawney continued. "You have to grab him and make him cry uncle or you won't bed him. Ever."

"You don't know that!" Gildy exclaimed. "I, this is, it's just a phase! A _slump_!"

"Well, unless you force him to coitus with you—"

"Stop it!"

"What now?"

"Stop calling it coitus. I can't focus when you use 'coitus' instead of sex."

"Why not? It's the correct term."

"No. Well, yes, it _is_. But I still don't like it. No calling it coitus. I don't want to hear the word coitus ever again."

 _'Doesn't coitus mean the sexual unison between a male and a female?'_ Harry thought before deciding to stop thinking about that right now and  _never_ think about it again. He shook his head before speaking up again. "Why do you insist on targeting Crouch, anyway? I'm sure there'd be many other people interested in you." Not to mention that the thought of forcing or harassing someone the way Gildy and Trelawney had been doing – it was really unsettling.

"That's what I've been telling her," Trelawney said. "I mean, him," she corrected, sounding as if she didn't really care whether she was referring to Gildy as a male or a female.

"I might seem normal right now," Gildy sobbed, hugging one of the firewhisky bottles against his chest, "but actually I just want to bite my tongue off and die."

"Do it," Trelawney urged. "We'll take pictures and use them when we crash his future wedding with some woman."

"Who's  _we_?" Harry almost shrieked, feeling very alarmed. "Don't include _me_ in your crazy schemes! Don't you have any morals?"

"I have morals," Trelawney said, her pupils so dilated that Harry was starting to wonder what she was seeing, exactly. "I just choose to ignore them blatantly. And you, my friend, man up. He's an asshole. Try some of this Chinese herb joint– I used to be different before I got my hands on this stuff. Much more timid, I was. My life used to be all about predicting the deaths of others. Now, it's all about making those predictions come true while being higher than the fucking sun."

 _'Did she just imply that she's some kind of a serial killer?'_  Harry thought before swallowing and turning away, hoping that the woman was just joking.

"But I love him," Gildy whined, not even bothering to look up and see the joint that was being offered. "I love him and his tiny little asshole self anyway."

"But he doesn't love you," Trelawney reminded him, pulling back her joint.

"I hate you, Sybil. There's a special place in hell reserved for people like you."

"I've always wanted to travel somewhere warm."

"I think I'll go back to sleep," Harry muttered, sliding off his chair and heading towards the door.

"Beds aren't meant for you to lie alone in!" Trelawney hollered after him.

"You can't leave!" Gildy wailed, lunging at Harry and grabbing his arm. "It's your farewell party!"

 _'Oh Merlin, somebody save me,'_ Harry thought, trying to come up with an excuse as to why he was going to sleep so early in the day. He wasn't fast enough though, and so Gildy dragged him back to his chair and forced him to sit down. "Is there a point to this?"

"He asked!" Gildy crowed before looking at Harry with a focused expression. Well, as focused as he could, in his drunken state. "Barty will be in Durmstrang with you!"

"Yeah," Harry said, remembering that the dueling lessons were going to start that year. "I'll even start attending some of his classes."

"So you'll be a good boy and keep us updated," Gildy said. "And if my Barty-darling seems to be showing some kind of interest in anyone who isn't me, you'll send me the info, alright?"

"I am not going to stalk him on your behalf," Harry protested. "He's my teacher!"

"Well, it's not really stalking in the full meaning of the word," Gildy tried to reason. "I'm not going to tell you sneak into his rooms and watch him as he undresses that sinfully wonderful, muscled body of his. Oh, the mere  _memory_ of those scars—"

"Spare me," Harry whimpered, closing his eyes. "I don't want to hear that!"

"He said he doesn't want to hear," Trelawney snickered. "Tie him up and force him!"

"Which one?" Gildy asked, sounding interested. "Tie this one and force him to listen or tie the other one and force him to—"

"Don't you have any honour! That’s disgusting to joke about!" Harry exclaimed, standing up again, dead set on escaping the kitchen where they were all gathered.

“I lost that at fourteen,” Gildy giggled. “Come here… I’ll tell you how and when…”

Harry was sure that he was going to end up with lifelong traumas, despite his attempts at ignoring everything the two adults were trying to tell him. After Gildy and Trelawney had finally left, the boy, exhausted, had collapsed onto a chair and asked a house-elf to bring him a cup of tea.

He was, without a doubt, glad that soon he’d be returning to Durmstrang where would have the time to think, plan and rest.

And where he’d have some sensible company.

*

When Harry’s portkey took him to the square in front of the apartment complex where his flat was, he was pretty sure that no one else would be there yet – it was early, and even the sun hadn’t properly risen yet. He hadn’t originally planned on coming here _this_ early, but he hadn’t been able to sleep anyway and had decided to just make the trip and sleep in his flat if he felt like doing so.

 _‘Besides at least here I won’t have to worry about surprise visits from people I don’t want to see,’_ Harry thought, setting down his trunk and sighing with relief as he closed the door behind him. It felt strange, to be back in his flat after all of what had happened. Harry felt as if his whole _world_ had changed during the few months he had spent away.

He had a whole day ahead of him, and he was looking forward to seeing his friends after what seemed like an eternity. Tomorrow he’d get his schedule for the year and start with the lessons the day after. A familiar routine, and it was exactly familiar routines that Harry needed to feel comfortable in midst of chaos.

The boy made himself a cup of tea before sitting down to read yesterday’s copy of the Quibbler. It was nonsense, of course, but he wanted to familiarize himself with the paper before doing anything. He would have made something to eat but his fridge and cupboards were woefully empty, and he wasn’t in the mood for summoning a house-elf and ordering it to do some grocery shopping on his behalf.

It wasn’t till well after midday that Harry heard someone walking past his door, continuing their way up. He considered leaving his door ajar as a sign to let the others know that he was there, but then decided not to. As much as he had missed his friends, he didn’t wish for any obligatory visits that would be full of awkward small talk; something Harry knew would occur if Heidi was to arrive.

 _‘There’s so much I can’t help but think about,’_ Harry sighed, refilling his cup of tea. _‘Like Tom. What am I supposed to do about Tom? He didn’t seem too angry when I last saw him, but he’s the Dark Lord, which means that he’s far more complicated than what I’ve thought so far. I mean… otherwise he wouldn’t have managed to achieve what he has, especially considering what kind of dangerous, cunning Dark wizards and witches are out there.’_

And now a guy like that would be Harry’s… opponent. Maybe. Harry did _want_ to make Tom consider him an enemy, but he doubted that the man would understand why Harry needed to do what he was going to do.

 _‘If I just knew what exactly I should be doing,’_ Harry thought, _‘I would also know where I stand. For all I know maybe he won’t mind me trying to change the way people think about werewolves and other magical creatures… if that’s all of what I should do. And if I’m supposed to save him, just how do I do that!? If he’s truly immortal, then should I make him mortal? How am I supposed to do something like_ that _, for Merlin’s sake?’_

Harry was startled when the doorbell suddenly rang, and he hastily put down his cup of tea before rushing to open the door. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw Truls standing there.

“Harry,” Truls said, grinning. He was taller than when Harry had last seen him. His hair was slightly longer and his voice was a tad bit rougher.

“Come in,” Harry said, pulling his friend inside. “How have you been?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Truls replied, kicking off his shoes and moving to sit on the couch, pulling Harry to sit right next to him. “Are _you_ okay? Need anything?” He didn’t – and Harry was thankful about that – comment anything about the purple heart-earrings Harry had taken to wearing.

“I miss mum, but I’m learning to cope with it,” Harry sighed. He wasn’t going to tell Truls yet about his plans –perhaps later on in the evening. “But really, what have you been up to?”

“Since my parents found out that we’ll start dueling this year,” Truls started, “they got me a tutor. It’s been hell – the guy’s a slave driver. Not too pleasant either.”

“Poor you,” Harry chuckled, before sighing, feeling content. It was so _nice_ to be with Truls again.

“I missed you,” Truls said, as if he had heard Harry’s thoughts. His blue eyes were fixed on Harry and he leaned slightly closer. “I _really_ missed you. I wished so hard that I could have been with you and supported you this summer. I don’t like it when you’re sad.” Harry swallowed, reaching to curl his fingers around Truls’s own.

“Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning against his taller friend. “I missed you too, you know.” And then, suddenly, Harry remembered what he had found out about Truls’s feelings towards him. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to _do_ – did Truls expect something from him? Did Truls even know that Harry knew?

“Do you know who our dueling Instructor is going to be?” Truls asked. Harry nodded.

“Bartemius Crouch Junior,” he said. “I met him a while ago. He’s good. Very good. I don’t know about what kind of reputation he has, though, but I expect that we’ll be starting from the very basics, as he won’t expect us to know anything beforehand.”

“My parents said that according to what they’ve heard, this year we’re going to start our real training,” Truls said, just as the doorbell rang again. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“Perhaps they mean dueling by ‘real training’,” Harry said, standing up and moving to open the door. He stepped aside to let Filippa and Petronella in.

“Harry,” Filippa exclaimed, hugging him tightly. “Oh, sweetie, are you okay? Nice earrings! Didn’t know you were into that, though. I’ve got remember it then.” Harry wasn’t sure what in the world Filippa had meant by ‘that’, and he wasn’t eager to ask either. He didn’t want to know.

“When did you become so… affectionate?” Truls asked. “Seriously, hugging him. First few weeks we saw you, Filippa, you’d barely crack a smile.”

“She spent most of her holiday with even more affectionate fashion designers,” Petronella revealed, before moving to hug Harry as soon as Filippa let go of him. The boy couldn’t help but notice how thin she was.

“Hugging a friend is not unusually affectionate,” Filippa said, sitting down on the couch as well.

“It is when you do it,” Truls claimed. Petronella giggled, taking a seat as well while Harry wondered if all of his friends would drop by at some point. He wasn’t sure what brought them to _his_ flat, specifically, but he didn’t mind – it felt nice, to be sought out like that.

“I can’t wait to see our schedule,” Petronella said. “Really, I wonder if we’re still going to have to put up with those astronomy lessons. Honestly, I don’t want them.”

“No kidding,” Filippa agreed. “I’m still baffled at how they managed to find enough material to cover for two years. Surely there can’t be much more to teach regarding that subject!”

“We can certainly hope so,” Harry said, moving to open the door once again when it rang. Björn walked in, followed by Clemens. Harry was, in all honesty, surprised to see Clemens there – he wasn’t really a good friend of Harry’s and they didn’t particularly hang out together.

“You guys know of Viktor Krum, right?” Clemens said immediately after the obligatory greetings. “He got scouted by the Bulgarian team! The national team, I mean!”

“It’s giving me something new to bet on,” Björn grinned. “That guy’s the best seeker I’ve ever seen!”

“You mean he’s playing professionally now?” Filippa asked, sounding impressed. “We’re schoolmates with a celebrity!” Harry thought of the older boy who had come across as quiet, rather shy and awkward. And, well, very polite. He somehow doubted that Viktor Krum would really enjoy being a celebrity. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise Harry if the guy was secretly terrified of it.

“I guess everyone’s looking forward to the dueling lessons the most,” Björn said suddenly. “You know the rumours about the older students, right?”

“What rumours?” Harry asked, frowning.

“That the best of them get to meet the Dark Lord himself,” Björn said, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat when he thought about Tom again. He wondered what his friends would do or say if he was to ever tell them – but no, they probably wouldn’t even believe him.

 “Isn’t that just about the seventh years, though?” Filippa asked.

“We’re the special generation, though,” Truls reminded her. “He could observe us from, say, next year onwards!”

 _‘The Dark Lord they’re talking about is really, really, really Tom,’_ Harry thought. Of course he knew that his Tom was the Dark Lord, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel… unsure. He was nowhere near used to the idea, and more often than not it still seemed so unbelievable.

Harry really missed the simpler days from the past. The days when what he worried about were the characters in his books, not the people in his actual life.

The simpler days when he knew where he stood. Perhaps friendless, but with his family.

 _‘The world keeps changing,’_ Harry thought and sighed, watching his friends talk. _‘I can barely keep up with it now. I can’t imagine what Tom must have felt when the world kept changing drastically around him. Then again it’s mostly the kind of changes that he has approved of… But to think… if he really is immortal, then eventually he’ll see the day when nothing in this world is how it used to be, and nothing he could do could bring back what once was.’_

Maybe that’s what he could start with, Harry thought, sitting up straighter, deep in his thoughts. Maybe he could start by trying to convince Tom of the necessity of being mortal. There was no need for those… what they were called again? Oh yeah, Horcruxes.

 _‘It can’t be that hard, right?’_ Harry mused silently. _‘Surely it’s doable.’_

*

When Harry and his classmates received their schedules, he wasn’t the only one who grimaced.

“Sir,” Heidi started, sounding desperate. “Are we not allowed to have free time at all?”

“You exaggerate, Miss Jöran,” Professor Dietmar replied, looking uninterested. “Besides, do remember, you all are here to _study_. Free time is necessary only for completing your homework.”

“We still have astronomy,” Petronella groaned. “Tuesday night. Oh, the _agony_.”

“You know, I was thrilled about the dueling lessons,” Björn said, inspecting the schedule. “But Merlin’s balls, just look at Saturday! Six hours! I’ll spend my Sundays _dead_.”

“I don’t think that we’ll have time for any extra Quidditch,” Clemens said sadly. “Last year’s schedule was so much…well, less demanding.”

“You are older now,” Professor Dietmar said. “And you are expected to work hard if you wish to keep up with the new standards. You are elite, and if you ever have a student of some other school as your opponent, you must be the victor. You are being trained to succeed in that. Your education will be heavily focused on dueling and improving your fitness and stamina… none of you – not a single one of you in this room right now – is meant to work in an office, pushing papers. You belong out there, on the battlefield. As leaders.”

“What if we don’t want that?” Petronella asked, sounding almost tearful. Harry saw Jakob nodding, and the expression on the other boy’s face showed a mix of hope and bitterness. It made Harry think, once again, of the illness the other boy had. Did Jakob know already what it was and how serious it was? Would he tell them? Could it be cured?

“You still have time to change your mind, if that’s the case,” Professor Dietmar replied. Harry could see Filippa’s expression turning sour, before his Italian friend turned to offer some comfort to Petronella, who seemed genuinely distressed.

“And those who fail to live up to these high expectations?” Björn asked, narrowing his eyes. “What will happen to them?”

“If you work hard, you needn’t worry about that,” Professor Dietmar told him. “Now, is anything else unclear? No? Dismissed. Your lessons will start tomorrow. Good day.”

“This is ridiculous,” Filippa hissed to Harry as they packed their bags. Harry glanced at Truls who didn’t look particularly concerned.

“Well, at least tomorrow morning will start with Divination,” Petronella said. “It’s not as tough as the other classes so we have a bit of time to get used to this pace.”

“And what a pace it is,” Björn whistled as they left the classroom, all together. “I mean _seriously_ , did you see what we have on Saturday?”

“No kidding,” Clemens agreed, nodding. “From eight in the morning till nine in the evening! That’s _crazy_!”

“Well, at least we have three empty hours in there somewhere,” Heidi said, trying to sound hopeful and yet unable to erase the misery completely from her voice. “I’m almost scared of seeing what kind of schedule we’ll have next year!”

“It’s not so bad,” Nikolai said. “We’re obviously going to get a tougher kind of education that the students of other schools. We work hard now and we’ll surpass all the outsiders when it matters.”

“That’s true,” Harry muttered, thinking of what he’d have to do in the future. “If the war gets any worse, we’ll have to be the best of the best. I’m sure that the Rebels train every day to fight for what they believe in. We have to be… better, more skilled, in order to win.”

“And here I’ve spent years thinking that you’re a softy,” Clemens said, sounding approving. Harry didn’t feel particularly delighted to be the receiving end of the boy’s approval. Neither did he like agreeing with Nikolai.

“Aww, look!” Petronella suddenly exclaimed, looking at a group of students following a teacher. “Aren’t those first year kids?”

“They look so tiny,” Filippa sighed. “Poor dears.”

“We’re just two years older than them, you know,” Björn reminded her. “Think they’d be interested in betting?”

“They, too,” Nikolai said suddenly with a dark look in his eyes. “They too will be our rivals. We not only have to be better than the students from other schools, but we also have to be better than the other students at _this_ school.”

“Not each other, though,” Petronella said hastily, sounding almost frightened. “I don’t want to think of _any_ of you as competition or opponents!”

“We’re the first generation,” Björn said pompously. “We’re allies!”

 _‘I wonder if everyone agrees with that,’_ Harry thought, remembering how Nikolai, Heidi and Clemens had reacted after Lorenzo’s death. _‘When the time comes to do more than just talk, what will they do? Will we all really stay as allies forever? I can’t see that.’_

“Think we’ll ever really be officially tested against students from other schools?” Heidi asked. “I mean, really, what are the chances of _that_ happening?”

“Maybe in a competition,” Clemens replied. “Which means that every lesson we receive is valuable. We simply can’t afford being worse than them. Hell, we can’t afford even being _equal_ to them. We have to be better.”

“That terrifies me,” Petronella admitted. “I mean, honestly. Acing written tests and succeeding in practice during lessons is one thing, but the idea of actually having to be able to defeat someone… it’s scary.”

 _‘Scary,’_ Harry thought _. ‘That describes life itself pretty well.’_

*

“My Lord,” Bellatrix Lestrange said, kneeling down in front of Lord Voldemort. “I come bearing good news.”

“Speak, then, Bellatrix,” Tom ordered.

“One of the Mudbloods we captured recently has revealed that there are at least eight major Rebel camps in Europe,” the witch said eagerly, loving the chance to gain the approval of her Master. “Previously we only knew of the camps in Ireland, Spain and Italy.”

“Do you have the exact locations of those camps?” Tom asked, hiding his displeasure well. If there were indeed _that_ many major camps, then the number of Rebels would be much higher than what anyone had estimated. Just how could there be that many? Did they recruit Muggles or something? Or did they really have nothing else to do but breed out there?

“We have the locations of two of those camps, my Lord,” Bellatrix replied promptly. “Both of them are in France.”

“Ah.” France. The most problematic country from his point of view. Why did they have to be so dramatic and opinionated all the time? They would readily offer promises of alliance and glory and brotherhood, and yet Tom was more than aware of how the majority of the French magical population considered him an enemy.

Of course Tom understood _why_. They were afraid of being absorbed and turned into a subservient branch, different from his British servants only in name and language.

“I have a job for you, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said, and the woman leaned forward, devotion shining in her dark eyes.

“Anything, my Lord,” she whispered. “Any way I can serve, I—”

“You are to choose a few Death Eaters – whichever are fine – and train them personally. You’ll teach them Legilimency and Occlumency and how to survive while gathering information,” Voldemort said. “Their eventual task will be to abduct a Rebel and impersonate them, and to succeed in that they will have to be… perfectly trained.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Bellatrix said, her lips twisting into a wide smile. “It’s an honour to be trusted. An honour…”

 _“Think this one would try to get rid of your dead-alive boy if she knew how much time you spend thinking about him?”_ Nagini hissed, lifting her head from a vase nearby _. “I wonder if he could ever behave like that towards you.”_

Tom didn’t reply to Nagini, although he couldn’t help but think about Harry kneeling like that in front of him – the way Bellatrix was doing now, showing her submission – offering his devotion so readily and promising to do whatever he was told. The thought wasn’t unappealing.

“Sirius Black,” Voldemort called then, and the Death Eater in question stepped forward. “I gave you, quite a while ago, a rather special mission. What is its current status?”

“I only have a few technicalities to sort out, my Lord,” Black replied, kneeling down as well. “Hopefully a year from now on we can reintroduce the Triwizard Tournament. There are a few things I wish to have your opinion on, though… If I may be so bold as to ask, of course.”

“Speak.”

“Where will the tournament take place? I would think Durmstrang, but—“

“Hogwarts,” Tom cut in. “It will happen in Hogwarts.”

“And the judges—“

“I have no interest in who you nominate to be a judge. You are free to pick whomever you want.” At this, Sirius bowed once more before taking a step back. Tom spent a few moments in silence, trying to think of anything that should be discussed and hadn’t been yet. When he couldn’t find anything, he dismissed the Death Eaters and retreated to his private study with Nagini following him, fully intending on thinking about war strategies and how to track down and hunt Rebels.

He did not want to think of what he had dubbed the Potter Problem.


	17. Chapter 17

When Harry saw Professor Crouch, he thought about Gildy.

It was Saturday, and their first dueling class was about to start. They were gathered in a spacious, empty room, dressed in simplified children's version of real battle robes. They'd have three consecutive hours of dueling, then an hour's break, and then two hours of the same kind of hard work again before the lessons of the day would be over. As much as Harry wanted to learn how to duel, he did think that five hours were a bit  _too much_ to start with.

Crouch seemed to recognize Harry when he saw him and nodded in greeting to his direction. Harry smiled back, warily.

"You don't need to pull out your wands yet," Crouch said, looking at his nine students. "Sit down. Yes, on the floor." Harry could see Filippa's disapproving expression at sitting on the floor. The girl had also managed already to express her dislike towards the grey garments they were wearing.

 _'Well, at least she can be happy knowing that real battle robes are fancier than these,'_ Harry thought, sitting down and turning to look at Crouch, who remained standing. He was dressed in black battle robes with silver runes around the collar, and Harry wondered what their purpose could be.

A long time ago, Sirius had told Harry about runes that made battle robes better, safer… and more dangerous. Runes for resisting fire, runes for defense against certain curses, runes that make apparating easier, and much more. It was very hard to find well-runed robes though. Runemasters were rare, and runes were expensive to create and embroider onto robes.

"Contrary to the popular belief," Crouch started, "dueling is far more than just flinging hexes at your opponent. Formal dueling has rules and protocols… and the only time you are permitted to neglect those rules and protocols is during war. Anytime aside from that, you'd get disqualified for breaking the rules. Let's start with the absolute basics– What is the definition of a duel? Mr. Marvin?"

"A confrontation between two or more wizards. Or witches." Clemens replied, and Crouch nodded.

"Yes, a duel is a confrontation. You face your opponent, bow, and then start. Your aim is to disarm, injure or kill. Usually only magical means are allowed in duels, but knives and swords are nowadays commonly accepted. Using your actual body to physically hit your opponent, however, is frowned upon in a formal duel."

"So we won't be learning that?" Petronella asked, sounding relieved. Much to her grief, though, Crouch shook his head.

"You will be learning hand-to-hand combat, of course, because most of the time you will not be fighting in formal duels, but in a war. And in war whatever can give you the advantage should be used. No matter what it is. Now, can anyone here tell me what a 'Second' is? Mr. Lennart?"

"A stand-in duelist who'll take over if the original one is beaten?" Björn replied hesitantly. Again, Crouch nodded.

"Duelists will often have a 'second'– a person who will take their place in a duel if necessary. What makes a good duelist?"

"Extensive knowledge on different spells," Heidi suggested.

"How to use whatever spells he or she has," Harry said, remembering what Crouch had told him quite a long time ago. "And to think outside the box."

"Quick reflexes," Truls added. "And the ability to stay calm."

"Willpower and stamina," Filippa said. "Awareness, too."

"All that," Crouch told them. "Your sports lessons for the past two years have included activities such as running, swimming, and Quidditch to improve your stamina and aerial balance. You will not only continue to keep up with those, but we will also devote some of the dueling lessons to improve your physical fitness."

"And… and if someone is unable to keep up?" Jakob asked, and Harry felt a twinge of pity towards the other boy who looked embarrassed, guilty, and even slightly bitter. "If they try hard and still don't succeed, what will happen?" Crouch looked at them for a few silent moments, and Harry was starting to think that he wouldn't reply, when he finally spoke.

"We will look into that when it happens," the man said simply. "Now, you can start by running laps around this area. The first lap is to warm up, the second lap is for you to run as fast as you can, and the rest are at your own pace, for an hour. Go on."

*

The hour was almost over when Jakob fell and was unable to stand up again. Harry felt his heart ache when he saw the way his friend was lying on the floor, sweaty, pale-faced, eyes clenched shut, and expression of pain clear on his face. Before he, or anyone else, stopped and went to check on him, Crouch told them to keep on running.

"In a mission, if you're being chased," Crouch said coldly as they ran, leaving Jakob on the floor on the verge of passing out, "if one of your comrades falls, you will not have the time to turn, help them up, and carry them– you too will be caught. It's always better for one person to be caught instead of two. And in missions where your fallen comrade knows something the enemy must not find out about, it is your duty to shoot them with a killing curse to ensure their silence."

Harry had, to some extent, expected this kind of instructions. He was sure, though, that some of his classmates– especially Petronella – would have a hard time accepting it.

 _'Not that I can blame her,'_ Harry thought.  _'We're just thirteen. Why do we even have to know about a possible future where we would have to kill our friends?'_ Then again, perhaps it was better for Harry to get used to the idea of not always keeping the friends he had now. They would surely leave him anyway if they were to know about his future plans.

"You okay there, Harry?" Truls asked, jogging next to him.

"I wonder if Jakob will be okay," Harry replied, gasping for breath. "He should be taken to the hospital wing."

"Professor Crouch put a stabilizing spell on him," Clemens said, sounding far less winded than Truls or Harry, making the two boys wonder what kind of private training their classmate was secretly doing. "I don't know why he'd still keep Jakob there, though."

 _'To humiliate him?'_ Harry thought angrily before dismissing that thought. Crouch wasn't the type to do that.  _'More likely, it's to teach us a lesson. Make us endure the sight of a fallen comrade. I wonder if this is making Jakob feel betrayed or angry… oh Merlin, I hate this.'_

"Start slowing down now," Crouch suddenly said. "Don't stop immediately… slow down gradually 'til you're walking before you stop. Then stretch."

"Finally," Harry groaned. His legs were aching, his heart beating fast, and there seemed to be some kind of a pain right beneath the right side of his ribs. He was very, very glad at the thought of finally getting to stop walking. How were they expected to do anything after this first hour?

"It's probable that we'll have to do this in the beginning of every dueling lesson," Clemens said, slowing down as well. "But once a week won't be enough."

"I am _not_ going to sign up for morning jogs if that's what you're implying," Harry replied. "Doing this once a week is bad enough. Oh _Merlin_ , my legs hurt." Eventually, they got to sit down on the floor– after stretching their sore muscles– and were soon enough joined by the rest of their classmates. Heidi was lying on the floor next to Nikolai, gasping for air.

"If I move now, I'll throw up," the girl said. "I feel like someone threw me into a barrel and made it roll down a rocky hill."

"How do you think Jakob is feeling?" Filippa asked, wiping her sweaty face with the hem of her shirt and sitting down after she finished stretching. " _Santo inferno sulla terra_ , that was  _painful_."

"I'm not going to even pretend I understood two thirds of that sentence," Petronella said. Her face was as red as her hair, and Harry could see her arms and legs shaking. "But what comes to Jakob, I think we should go and see him."

"He'll probably have to transfer away," Nikolai said. "If physical fitness is so valued here, those who don't have it will be better off somewhere else."

"Not necessarily," Clemens said. "There have to be more than just good duelists in a team. We'd need a healer and a strategist. As long as Jakob excels in  _something_ , I'm sure that will be good enough to keep him here. With a modified schedule, maybe."

"Why would they do that just for one student?" Heidi asked.

"It's not like we got in by luck," Clemens reminded her. "We got in because we have something the other examinees didn't have. If the magical potential that we have really isn't common, then they're not going to throw out those who actually fill the criteria of getting in. Not unless they absolutely have to."

"He's got a point," Harry said, feeling relieved. "Jakob still has a chance."

"What do you think we'll do after Professor Crouch returns?" Petronella asked. "I hope no more of this or I might end up joining Jakob in the hospital wing. I thought I'd pass out. My legs were starting to feel numb, and I just couldn't  _breathe._ " Their conversation was cut short when Crouch returned. He didn't ask them if they had obeyed his orders, and Harry suspected that he didn't care. The man's instructions were meant to aid them, and ignoring them would result in a natural punishment.

Crouch stood silently for a few moments before he spoke.

"Only one hour has passed," Crouch said. "One hour out of five. Since your physical fitness s seems to be so dreadful, I can assure you that we won't be doing any actual dueling practice for quite a while. Now, stand up and follow me – there's no point in staying in a dueling arena anymore."

"Where are we going?" Heidi asked, sounding alarmed as she stumbled up. Harry couldn't see the smile on Crouch's face as the man was already turned away, but somehow, he could hear it when the man replied.

"To the gym."

*

"Supporting Muggles and Mudbloods," Tom murmured, looking at the four bound Rebels kneeling in front of him. "Helping them, protecting them, considering them  _equal_ to you… What a  _disgrace_  to the Wizarding kind."

"A Dark wizard like  _you_ is the disgrace here!" one of the Rebels snarled. "Torturer! Murderer!" Tom's lips curled into a tiny smile as he stopped Rabastan Lestrange from killing the Rebel who had spoken to him so boldly. No, he wouldn't need Rabastan to set them straight this time. He had something far more entertaining in store for all four of them.

"And you believe that…  _Muggles_ are harmless?" the Dark Lord asked. "You believe that they couldn't, not in a million years, invent a way to torture that is worse than the worst of curses out there? Well then, I must say that it is my  _duty_ to prove you wrong, isn't that right? Rabastan, Rodolphus, bring the prisoners and follow me." He had a special section in the dungeons, and he had been waiting  _eagerly_ for the chance to use it. Now this chance had finally arrived.

The first room he took them to was very, very simple. There was only one thing, and that thing was a chair. But what a chair it was– there were spikes covering the back, arm-rests, seat, leg-rests and foot-rests. There were also leather straps hanging from the sides of the chair.

"One of you four will have the pleasure of experiencing this, ah, product of Muggle inventiveness and goodwill," Tom said, enjoying the expressions of dawning comprehension and the fear caused by understanding. One of the Rebels was untied, and he was dragged towards the chair. The man cursed at them and tried to break free, but his attempts were doomed to fail.

"This is the Judas Chair," Tom said, his voice as calm and sweet as he could make it. "Muggles used it 'til the end of the 19th century, when it gave way to far more… civil methods. It's a pity, really– I find this particularly delightful as it will not kill you immediately." The Rebel screamed as he was tied down to the chair and the spikes penetrated his flesh. Tom paused with his explanation, enjoying the pained screams.

This is what his enemies deserved.

"None of the spikes will penetrate any vital organs," Tom said after a few long minutes, during which the Rebel's pained wails had quieted down to pitiful whimpering. "And the wound is closed by the spike so the blood loss will be greatly delayed. Now, do you want to know what else Muggles did with this thing? They lit a small fire under the chair, to heat those spikes. Shall we try that method of Muggle kindness?" The Rebel howled as the pain intensified, and Tom turned to look at the other three captured criminals. None of them was unaffected by the sight.

"You brought this upon yourselves," Tom reminded them gently. "You just had to make me your enemy, hm? Why, if I may ask? What in this world of mine is wrong, for you to want to change it?" He didn't receive an answer. Not that he had really expected one. The only one who talked back to him was, after all, Ha-  _Potter_.

Tom waited for a few moments watching the Rebel sob and writhe in pain before gesturing for Rodolphus and Rabastan to grab the remaining three prisoners and follow him to another room again. The straps holding the fourth rebel weren't going to let him go– Tom had made sure of that.

"I am not going to ask you to volunteer any more information," the Dark Lord said to the rebels as they entered the second room. "I gave you a chance already, and I… do not believe in second chances. Now, this one here is known as the Rack." Once again there was only one thing in the room– it looked like a wooden frame with two ropes fixed to the bottom and another two tied to a handle in the top. It was held a few feet above the floor by two pipes, and there was a handle on its left side.

Once again, one of the Rebels was untied. The man was pulled onto the Rack, his legs and hands tied with the ropes. Tom tried to not smile too eagerly when he gestured for Rodolphus to turn the handle, making the ropes pull the Rebel's limbs.

"A long time ago, Muggles used this to tear each other apart," Tom said, watching as the Rebel struggled to not to scream. "Your limbs will never work again after this. Not that you'll be needing them– the dead have no use for their limbs, after all." At that, the Rebel screamed. Just as there was pain in his scream, there was also rage. Anger. Was it directed at Tom? The Dark Lord wasn't sure– perhaps the man was angry at himself for getting captured? Or maybe even angry at supporting a cause that was clearly  _not worth it?_

Tom didn't know, and he didn't really care either. He stood there, listening to the captured man's screams as they grew louder and louder. He heard when the first bone in the man's body broke, and when he turned to look, he could see the skin stretching as far as it could go as the bones inside it moved in unnatural ways.

 _'Harry would hate this,'_ Tom thought. He didn't understand why. He tried, as he stared at the tortured man, to muster up something he could call regret, or even pity. But he couldn't. All of what he could see in front of him was a Rebel being rightfully punished. It was just something that  _had to be done– it was his duty, a job. He wasn't even feeling angry. He was… having fun, ac tually. Who told these people to join the Rebels, huh? This is what they deserved, for preferring to protect Muggles over serving a righteous cause. Over serving_ him.

The world he had worked so hard to create was being sneered at and ignored by fools like this. They chose wrong, when they chose the Rebels. Tom wanted them to be aware of that. He didn't need confessions, didn't care about their silly little plans.

He wanted to make them sorry for crossing him.

By the time the Rebel had died – ripped apart and bled to death – the other Rebel in the previous room had fallen silent as well. Tom doubted that he was dead – more likely he was simply unconscious for now. Not caring enough to check, the Dark Lord led the two remaining prisoners and the LeStrange brothers to the next torture chamber. There were two hooks in the ceiling of the room with a bit of rope hanging off them and a saw on the floor.

"Now which one of you to choose?" Tom murmured, turning to look at the prisoners – a man and a woman. The woman was sobbing quietly and the man face showed already a pained expression. Perhaps the woman would be easier for this kind of torture. With a smirk Tom spelled the ropes off her, alongside with her clothes, leaving her nude, humiliated and afraid on the stone floor. Not wasting any more of his precious seconds, the Dark Lord levitated the woman towards the hooks.

"Attach her legs to the hooks using the rope," Tom instructed, and Rabastan Lestrange hurried to comply. When that was done, Tom cancelled the levitation spell, leaving the woman hanging upside down.

"This is actually one of the most popular torture methods Muggles used in the Middle Ages," Tom explained. "You will be cut in half using the saw. This can go on for hours, depending on how much we use the saw. Now do send a thankful thought towards those Muggles you've been protecting. They're the ones who invented these kinds of delightful methods of torture and extracting information. The people you have been helping and protecting all this time will betray you the moment they think they can win. I was never your real enemy, you fools."

Truly, aside from seeing his servants grovel in front of him and torturing people for fun, Tom really, really,  _really_  liked crushing dreams and hopes. It made his heart skip a beat.

Because, honestly, whoever stood against him  _deserved_ this.

*

Harry wasn't sure how he managed to drag himself to his flat after the dueling lessons. His legs could barely carry him, and in the end he had to take a bath rather than shower, simply because he didn't have the energy to stand any longer than necessary.

The following day his legs – no, his whole  _body_ was still aching. Harry tried to get rid of that feeling by taking a short walk outside, enjoying the few free moments before he'd have to go back inside and focus on his homework. The busy days had prevented Harry from thinking about his plans, much less actually tell someone about them. He wasn't really sure about how to even approach the subject.

Humming quietly, Harry walked further away from the apartment complex and towards the garden. He thought about Tom – what was the man doing? Planning the war? Make more rules? Order more executions like the one Harry had witnessed once? So focused on his thoughts, Harry was, that he didn't see Viktor Krum till the older boy was standing right next to him.

"Harry Potter," Krum said, and startled, Harry looked up.

"Viktor Krum," Harry said. "Hello. And congratulations on joining the national team."

"Thank you," Krum replied, although he didn't look particularly thrilled. "What brings you here?"

"Had my first dueling session yesterday and my muscles are still a bit sore," Harry explained. "I thought that a walk will make me feel a bit better. And you?" Krum shrugged, looking at a fountain nearby. He stayed silent for a few long moments before speaking.

"It's very quiet here," the boy said slowly. "I… feel like I can breathe."

"You've been hounded by people, huh," Harry muttered, feeling a bit sorry for the older boy. "Well, you're a celebrity now, aren't you? Many learn to enjoy the fame."

"I don't like being famous," Krum muttered, his shoulders hunched and arms folded. To Harry it looked like the older boy was expecting a blow of some kind, and trying to shield himself. "I just like Quidditch. A-and I don't even  _want_ to be famous. It's…" He quieted down, as if embarrassed to talk about whatever was on his mind. After staring at Krum for a few moments in silence, Harry pulled him towards the bench he could see nearby and pulled the older boy to sit down with him.

"You can talk," Harry said soothingly. "I won't tell anyone. I can give you an oath if you want."

"Ah, it's not important," Krum said, flushing. He didn't stand up and walk away, though, and Harry wondered if he was just gathering his courage to talk. It took quite a while before Krum sighed, coughed and started speaking.

"It… used to be worse," the boy muttered, his blush darkening as he avoided looking at Harry. "You hear the way I speak. It's… slow." Not just slow, actually. Krum was in the habit of carefully pronouncing every word, as if they were strange to him. Harry had just assumed that Krum wasn't as used to English language as most of everyone else at Durmstrang was.

"Stammering problem," Krum continued. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, but Harry could still see from the boy's red ears that the blush was firmly there. "It… used to be worse. Now I can talk without stuttering if I'm careful, but when I'm nervous or stressed it… comes back. And… I hate it. It's terrible. It's… I can't  _control_ it." Harry nodded, trying to not look pitying as he glanced at the boy by his side. He could only imagine how much a boy from a pureblood family – and now a celebrity – could suffer from a stutter.

"You have bad memories about it?" Harry asked gently. "Something happened?"

"P-people used t-to ask my parents wh-why I talked…  _talk…_  like that," Krum admitted, distress evident in his speech and voice. He was talking faster now, though, and he didn't seem to bother with trying to control the stutter as he spoke "It… it was…"

"Painful," Harry said quietly, feeling his heart ache at the thought of someone being mocked for stuttering. He was sure that no one who didn't have this problem would ever completely be able to understand how painful it could be. How much it could really burden a person, especially if they were in the limelight.

"People th-think less of you if you stutter," Krum said grimly, his stutter lessening as he regained his composure. "They th-think you're stupid or s-slow. Mentally, I mean. Th-they think it-it's a joke. They think it's a joke. R-respect is hard to earn. There is prejudice but n-no one really talks about it be-because only th-those who stutter know of it. Experience it."

"Have you tried therapy?" Harry asked, and wasn't surprised when Krum nodded.

"Speech therapists and mind healers," the older boy replied. "I w-want to fly forever but I don't want to be a celebrity. I don't want to have to talk to people suddenly. I… will be expected to do press conferences. I will be introduced to important people I don't even want to meet. M-my new team mates told me all about that. The thought alone makes me… anxious." Harry wished that he would have been able to say something –  _anything_ – comforting, but he couldn't. There just wasn't anything he could say. He just didn't  _know_ what to say.

"It's never too late to teach people to give up their prejudices," Harry finally said. "If you can't get rid of your stutter, then accept it. You are already respected, and the more you play, the more people will respect you as a wizard with superb flying skills. What comes to intelligence – well, you attend Durmstrang and everyone knows how high the standards here are."

"It's not that easy," Krum replied tiredly. "I-in my head it can be done. But then I just c-can't _do it_."

 _'Well, that feeling is familiar,'_ Harry thought. The two sat for nearly an hour in silence, thinking of their own problems. Neither felt the need to talk, simply enjoying being alone with someone else, without feeling lonely. Harry's muscles weren't any less sore, but he was still feeling quite a bit more alive than he had been before.

When Krum – or should Harry call him Viktor from now on? – left, Harry was still sitting on the bench, wondering if he would be able to help anyone at all, or if he was just trapped by delusions of grandeur that he didn't know he had.

*

"I'm starting to hate history lessons," Björn whined on Monday as they left Professor Lyuben's classroom behind. "Honestly, I'm up to my ears with politics. Completely fed up!"

"It wasn't that bad," Truls said, and Harry grinned. Truls had seemed to enjoy debating about the current political events. "But cheer up, we have sports next."

"Oh Merlin, no," Petronella groaned. "I don't want sports. I always end up almost passing out after the lesson."

"Eat more," Heidi told her promptly. "Honestly, Nella, you're way too skinny." Harry silently agreed with Heidi, but was distracted when another issue crossed his mind. He bit his lip and glanced at Jakob, wondering if the boy was going to attend the sports class or if he was going to go somewhere else. Harry was really curious about what his friend could possibly be suffering from, but he didn't dare to ask.

"Think we'll finally play some Quidditch?" Clemens asked eagerly. "I just hope that we won't be stuck running laps or – Merlin forbid – be dragged to the gym again. I bet no other school focuses of physical fitness like Durmstrang is doing!"

"Next Sunday, how about we race or play?" Truls suggested. "We could invite some second-years to play with us. What do you think, Harry? Björn, you in? Clemens?"

"Yeah of course," Clemens said immediately. Filippa scowled.

"Where's my invitation?" she asked. Truls looked at her with a surprised expression.

"I didn't know that you liked Quidditch," the boy replied. "You never fly if you can avoid it."

"Whether we give or refuse," Filippa told him, "women are glad to have been asked."

"So when Mette slapped me for asking her out, she was still glad on the inside?" Björn asked. Harry gaped at him. When had  _that_  happened and how come he hadn't heard about it?

"Um, no," Petronella said. "That's a different matter altogether. Really, Björn, move on. She's obviously not interested."

"She will be once I turn fifteen and get to officially start gathering my fortune," the Swedish boy replied confidently. "If it wasn't for the age-limit needed for the bank account applications, I'd be her main target already by now."

"You're seriously going to be rich one day," Jakob said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you really ended up being the richest wizard alive."

"With his betting luck, he's bound to get assassinated before he turns thirty," Clemens mocked, before his expression turned serious. "I wonder what we all will be doing after we graduate. Or where we'll be ten years from today."

"Probably hunting stray Rebels if there are any after the war," Nikolai said.

"And if the world was to change?" Harry asked him. His eyes were open, but instead of seeing his friends who had now turned to see him, he, for an instant, daydreamed of a peaceful world void of unfair executions, prejudice, and useless hatred. "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

 _'He's going to change the world,'_  Filippa knew suddenly, watching her friend mutely. The thought had crossed her mind uninvited, making her almost breathless with surprise. Harry's brilliant green eyes were half-closed, and there was a beautiful smile on his face. But what really made him special, at least to Filippa, was the  _feeling_  she got from him. She couldn't help but remember the words her own grandfather had told her a long time ago; something about seeing what everyone else could see, and thinking what nobody has thought before.

"To believe in dreams," she muttered, feeling suddenly as if her heart was full of happiness. Really, if there's someone– anyone– who could change the world, it would be one of them. More specifically, Harry. Or maybe all of them, together. But that was a dream, a dangerous dream, and as much as she yearned for it, fear kept her away from it.

"Isn't the world changing all the time?" Nikolai said dismissively, and Filippa was almost ready to glare at him when she happened to glance at Jakob. It had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but Filippa was sure that she saw a very uncharacteristic expression on her friend's face.

She couldn't tell, though, what kind of expression it was.

*

"Where did my week vanish to?" Petronella all but sobbed as they made their way yet again to the dueling classroom. Heidi was trying to comfort her, although she looked just as miserable about it. Harry noticed that Jakob's expression portrayed nothing of what he must have been feeling.

They entered the classroom and were positively surprised when there were nine chairs, presumably for them to sit on. When Professor Crouch eventually arrived, he simply nodded in greeting before closing the classroom's door and starting.

"We will, today as well, do some running and physical exercise," he said. "But first, there are a few things I would like for you to discuss."

"I hope it's not politics," Harry hear Heidi whisper. "I  _hate_  politics."

"There are many things you need to be aware of when you duel," Crouch said. "Your outfit, for example. The things you're wearing. Some of you use earrings– now tell me, why is wearing earrings unwise if you're in a duel?" Harry flushed slightly, wondering if this example was specifically aimed at him.

"A summoning charm would be harmful," Nikolai said, glancing at Harry, making the green-eyed boy's blush darken. "By summoning the earrings during a duel, they'd rip their way off the earlobe and distract the opponent quite painfully."

"Only if the summoning charm is strong," Petronella added. "And only if the one who wears them hasn't cast an anti-summoning charm on the earrings."

 _'I should remember that,'_ Harry thought, before speaking up. "Not just earrings, though. I mean, can organs be summoned? Even if they don't get a way out of the body, the summoning spell can cause a lot of damage internally." Crouch stared at Harry for a few moments before a tiny smile appeared on his face.

"An excellent thing to notice," Crouch murmured, looking pleased. "Excellent indeed."

"But gory," Petronella shuddered before glancing at Harry. "How'd you think of that?"

"It just crossed my mind," Harry admitted. The words had tumbled out of his mouth before his mind had even registered them. He wondered if Tom's company was to blame.

"I'm surprised," Clemens said and grinned. "You don't seem the type to have ideas like that."

"How can we defend against that sort of attacks?" Nikolai asked curiously. He, too, had glanced at Harry with a sly expression before asking his question. Crouch's smile melted away, and he nodded.

"There are many ways to protect your body," the man replied. "Usually, battle-robes have all kinds of protection runes. However, some people go to runemasters to have runes carved into their bodies– that's blood magic. It's very rare to meet someone who has gone through that process."

"They're expensive, right?" Björn asked. Crouch nodded.

"Dangerous too. Only outstanding runemasters know how to wield that kind of blood magic. You will be taught the basic theory of blood magic, but it's too complicated for third-years like you. Now, moving on to other matters… There are different stances one can take before a duel. The way you stand matters– each way has its advantages and disadvantages, and you will have to know which one to use in what kind of situation."

"Will you teach us how to duel even if we're not standing?" Clemens asked suddenly. "If we're, for example, forced onto our knees and still have the power to keep on fighting—"

 _'Just what kind of family does he have,'_ Harry thought, looking at Clemens warily. _'His physical fitness is notable, his political opinions well-explained, his behaviour… I think that Clemens, rather than Nikolai, would be the perfect Death Eater. Does he do some kind of special training in his free time?'_

"Yes," Crouch said. "I will teach you that as well; however, not quite yet. There is a lot to teach in the field of duelling, and we will need all of our lessons for the next few years in order for you to learn as much as you should."

 _'I wonder how well Tom can duel,'_ Harry thought suddenly. _'He's the Dark Lord, and I bet he's very, very good. I wish I could see, but I'm not sure if I want to be in a situation where I'd end up seeing him duel seriously. That'd be one scary situation, I bet.'_ Scary and potentially lethal. Harry didn't want to be the receiving end of anything like that.

"Now, stand up," Crouch said. "I'll teach you the most basic battle stance. No, you don't need to pull out your wands right now. You won't need to do that for quite a while, actually. Stand up and keep a distance of a few feet between one another…"

*

Tom was, simply put,  _exhausted_. He had kicked away his shoes, shrugged off his robes and shirt, and was now sitting on a chair with his eyes clenched shut. A house-elf popped in, bringing him a light snack and a headache potion.

It had been a long day.

Sure, many necessary things had been done, such as torturing Rebels and showing off some new interrogation ideas to his Death Eaters. He had also managed to extract fair amounts of information from the last Rebel who had happily agreed to talk when promised with a merciful death instead of the torture his team mates had been subjected to.

He had Bellatrix already working on the preparations for an important undercover mission, but that wouldn't be enough to give him the chance to get rid of the Rebels for good. Killing one there, another here, and capturing a few more people just won't be enough to bring him the victory he so desperately wanted.

He needed something new. He needed something  _grand_. Something… final and unexpected. If only he knew the exact locations of every Rebel camp, he could send Death Eater units to annihilate and mass murder. However, because he  _didn't_ know of their locations, he'd have to lure them out.

If Bellatrix's undercover project worked out as it should, the Death Eaters could sabotage some of the camps, set traps, and spread wrong, misleading information to the Rebels.

 _'This work never ends,'_ Tom thought, rubbing his eyes and sighing.  _'Merlin, even if I manage to get rid of one group, another will pop up soon. Oh well, I suppose it at least keeps me from getting bored.'_ He would need to make things a tad bit more entertaining, though. A convenient disaster that would make time pass faster.

He would have made some Potter Plans, but he still didn't feel like approaching the boy.

Tom didn't even notice his lips curling to form a reluctantly amused smile. Harry Potter. Such a funny child. If only the little bugger would stop being a source of constant headache, Tom suspected that he could even learn to tolerate the boy's presence for quite a while.

" _I ate a mouse,_ " Nagini hissed, slithering into the room. " _It was big, it was fat, and it struggled before losing the fight. Wonderful, juicy meat. Crunchy small bones. The— I know that face. Thinking about the dead-alive boy again, are we?_ "

"Shut up," Tom replied, wondering when his snake had become so eloquent. She hadn't always been like that, had she? He could remember the time when Nagini kept asking for clarifications and explanations. In all honesty, Tom had never met a snake quite as smart as Nagini. Then again, she was one of his horcruxes.

 _'Ha— Potter said he talked to Merope,'_ Tom suddenly thought, narrowing his eyes. Pushing aside the questions of how and when temporarily, just how much did the boy  _know_ about Tom? The Dark Lord would need to know, for sure.

Tom sat up straight, completely forgetting about the food near him. A plan was forming in his mind, and he hastily reached for a quill and a piece of parchment to write it down.

He'd need to investigate a few things, such as who Harry's best friend was and how easily Tom could use him for information gathering. Didn't typical kids tell their best friends everything? A bit of good old possession tricks could give Tom the information he wanted while keeping Harry unaware.

But who _was_ Harry's best friend? Did the boy even _have_ any good friends? And who could find out that kind of information for him? Crouch. Wasn't that man teaching in Durmstrang? Crouch could get him that information. It wouldn't even be difficult– the only thing required would be to make the target drink a certain potion, and the rest Tom could take care of on his own.

If he couldn't stop thinking about the boy, at least he could focus on trying to solve the potential threat Harry Potter presented.

It was about time that he solved _that_ mystery and moved on with his life.

*

Harry hadn't planned on talking with Truls about his future plans on that day. Really, the thought of telling anyone had actually vanished to the back of his mind, not to mention that he had first planned on talking with Filippa, not Truls.

That evening found him in Truls's flat, working on his homework. Harry had seen Truls's flat quite a few times before– it always gave him an odd feeling. Truls, to him, seemed so _normal_. No specific interests or hobbies, no unique, outstanding talents that would make him stand out in a crowd of other talented students.

His flat, however, showed off the blond boy's interest in runes and sports. It was a rather dark, cool, and comfortable place, and to Harry, the time seemed to stand still whenever he was there.

Then again, hadn't Truls's presence always seemed calming to him? Harry knew that some of his other classmates were, for some reason, wary of Truls sometimes… but he couldn't figure out why.

"Here," Truls said, setting down a cup of tea in front of Harry before sitting down as well. "Trouble with Transfiguration?"

"Trouble with everything, to be honest," Harry said, the words slipping out. He looked warily at Truls before sighing and pushing away his homework. "I don't even know how to talk about it."

"Try anyway," Truls encouraged. "If something is bothering you, then please talk to me about it. Together, we can solve it."

"It's complicated," Harry said, feeling uncomfortable. "It's… dangerous, too. _Very_ dangerous."

"Trust me," Truls said, and Harry knew that he could.

"I want to change this world," Harry started, feeling embarrassed for some reason. "There's so much wrong with it, not just the war. The Dark Lord's world works for the benefit of a small population in this world, but the rest suffer terribly for no good reason. And it's all just… wrong. Something needs to be changed. The war needs to be stopped before it kills most of the people. And if the system isn't changed after the war is stopped, it's going to start up again for those same pointless reasons."

"The world isn't going to change on its own for the better," Harry continued. "And waiting for someone else to do this will just be a waste of time. But I'm so terribly _scared_ , Truls. I don't know what to do for sure, _how_ to do it, who to trust, and I feel like this all is going to just fall over my head and I don't know what to  _do_!" The more he talked, the more the stress seemed to catch up with him.

"And as if it's not enough that I have to basically stand against the Dark Lord and the world he created, I'm in a school surrounded by people who would gladly kill me for it. I'm expected– we're _all_ expected– to fit into a mould that the Dark Lord has designed, and failure to do so will lead to failure in life itself. It's wrong that the whole world has to dance to the tune of one person only, no matter who this one person is!" Harry took a deep breath and looked at Truls with a wary expression, leaning slightly forward.

"Am I the first one you've told about this?" Truls asked. Harry nodded, and the blond boy smiled slightly with a strange expression on his face.

"We'll do this together, then," he said after a few moments of silence. "You and I. The two of us. Do you have any plans yet? We need to first set certain goals and start planning on  _how_  to reach those goals."

"We'll need more people, though," Harry said, and Truls shrugged.

"First, we plan. Then we can see who is fit to be recruited and who isn't."

"You seem to be accepting this easily," Harry said suddenly, hesitantly. "I mean… this isn't a harmless game, you know. It could set you against your family. And—"

"I trust you," Truls replied, shrugging. "I don't know everything yet, but I trust you to choose well and decide wisely. I _know_ you, Harry. You're not into doing risky things recklessly. If you're ready to do this, then it's going to be worth it." He then moved to touch Harry's cheek gently with an odd little smile on his face.

"It's going to be worth it," Truls repeated, and Harry wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel comforted or disturbed. There was something very odd in the atmosphere around them, and it made Harry feel slightly suffocated.

"There's a lot more I need to tell you," Harry continued. "Things you probably wouldn't believe."

"You wouldn't lie to me," Truls said, sounding utterly convinced. "How about you stay here tonight and tell me all of what you feel like telling? Tomorrow's free anyway."

"What do you think the others would say?" Harry asked hesitantly. "Filippa, for example?"

"Don't think about any of the others yet," Truls replied, standing up. "You don't need to go and get your clothes– just take one of my T-shirts."

"Okay," Harry said. It wasn't the first time he shared a bed with Truls although, sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder if the other boy's crush was still there or if it had changed into this close friendship. If Truls still liked him _that_ _way_ , was it unwise of him to go along with things such as sleeping in the same bed?

Maybe he should ask Filippa about this.

His concern about the unclear relationship with Truls was pushed to the back of his mind by the time he had brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and climbed into the bed next to the other boy. Truls turned to look at him and gave him an encouraging smile.

"You'll think that I'm crazy," Harry warned. "But I promise that I'm not."

"I wouldn't think that," Truls assured him, moving even closer. "I'd never think ill of you."

"Alright then," Harry said, his heart hammering nervously in his chest. "It actually started quite a few years ago, and I thought that it was a dream at first…"


	18. Chapter 18

By the time Harry had finished telling Truls about the train station and Albus Dumbledore – carefully leaving aside everything about knowing Merope and Tom personally, as well as big parts of Tom's past– the sun was just about to rise. Truls was lying on his back with Harry sprawled next to him on the bed, their bodies almost touching. The Swedish boy was thinking about what Harry had told him, and while he didn't understand all of it, he didn't think that Harry would lie to him. Truls wasn't sure, however, of how to react.

"You'll put yourself against the Dark Lord," he finally said.

"And against the Rebels, too," Harry whispered. "Sort of. Although I've been thinking… I don't really need to wage a _war_ against them or anything, do I? I want to _stop_ the war. If I could find another way to convince people of what is right… Or even just convince the leaders to persuade their followers to stop killing… It's all so very confusing and I don't know what I should _do_ , exactly."

It didn’t help that voicing his ambitions aloud made them sound unrealistic to the point of fantasy. It was… it was embarrassing. Thankfully, Truls didn’t comment on that.

"From what I gathered, you've got three projects at least," Truls replied. "First, stop the war. Second, promote equal rights for everyone, including werewolves and Muggles. Third, promote freedom of speech which includes the right to criticise anyone without the fear of getting killed. That’s… that’s a lot to handle. Actually, maybe you should start with the third point first."

"A friend of mine, well, her father," Harry started, "owns a magazine. I had thought about writing articles there or something. But, Truls, are you _really_ not bothered? I mean, this kind of thing isn't exactly… void of danger."

"Worried, I am for sure," Truls said, gently touching Harry's cheek with his fingertips. "But I'd _never_ abandon you, Harry. You want to do it, so you will. And I'm going to stand by your side through the good and the bad."

"People have been sentenced to death for less than speaking of this kind of matters."

"I know."

"I have no idea how to _start_ ," Harry huffed, feeling almost tearful. "One wrong step and—"

"It's all about saying the right things to the right people," Truls explained quietly. "We can do nothing right now, though. When we get the opportunity, we'll use it well. Don't worry, I'll help you."

 _'The whole mission seems impossible,'_ Harry thought, before suddenly remembering the Horcruxes. Maybe he really should start with _them_? If he could make the Dark Lord mortal, then, eventually, his era would end – that was the law of nature. He wasn't some kind of a hero, after all, and saving the whole _world_ couldn't be done. Because, well, it was _impossible_ to save humans from the human nature.

 _'I had considered asking Tom about the horcruxes directly and convince him to give them up,'_ Harry thought, closing his tired eyes. _'But the more I think about it, the less likely it seems that he'd readily give up all of what he has worked hard for so far.'_ Which left him with one option: disposing of the horcruxes without Tom knowing.

Easier said than done. He didn't even know what could be used as a horcrux, and he didn't know how many of them Tom had. Not to mention that he honestly had _no_ clue about how to even destroy a horcrux. Would he be able to do it without Tom feeling it somehow? At least he'd have Truls's help, though. That was a relief.

 _'I'm surprised at how agreeable he is about this, though,'_ Harry thought suddenly. Wasn't it rather… odd? Truls was his best friend, sure, but what Harry was technically asking for went beyond what friends were obliged to do. Truls didn't so much as look reluctant, and while that did make Harry happy and relieved, he now couldn't help but feel… worried? Wary? Not that he'd accuse Truls of betraying him or anything, but… was it normal?

A long time ago Björn had told him something about life-debts… something important… but Harry couldn't quite remember what it was…

Harry yawned. He was tired and more than ready to fall asleep – he'd have enough time to worry about horcruxes and the world after waking up.

*

Bartemius Crouch Jr. hadn't expected to be called for a mission by the Dark Lord during the school year. However, on Sunday morning, a neat little envelope with an invitation within made it clear that his presence was required on that very same day, as soon as possible.

And when the Dark Lord says _'as soon as possible'_ , he means _'now'_.

Trying to remember if he had done anything wrong and calculating the probability of ending up as a human sacrifice of some kind, Barty pulled on his cloak, checked that his wand was where it should be, and left to meet the Dark Lord.

 _'Last time I was singled out, I got stuck assisting Lockhart,'_ Barty thought warily, as he made his way towards the office room where the Dark Lord would be waiting. _'Merlin, I sure hope this mission doesn't involve dealing with him again, in any shape or form.'_ The corridors leading towards the room were mostly empty, and when he entered the Dark Lord's office, he wasn't surprised to see that no one else was present there aside from the two of them.

"My Lord," Barty said, kneeling down. The fact that Lord Voldemort's appearance was that of a man around Barty's age didn't make him seem any less threatening. In fact, knowing his real age – or the estimation, really – just made him come across as some kind of… _deity_. A deity with a taste for torture.

"You're late, Bartemius," the Dark Lord hissed. "But no matter, you're forgiven this time."

"Thank you, my Lord. You're most merciful—"

"I have a mission for you."

"Anything, my Lord," Barty said, hoping that he wouldn't be sent off to some faraway island to hunt for some rare snake food again. Or worse: bring some important plants that fought back _viciously_.

"Does the name Harry Potter ring a bell, Bartemius?" the Dark Lord asked, his voice deceptively smooth. Barty was startled; he had _not_ expected to hear the name of his arguably favourite student here. What— how and why did the Dark Lord know about Potter? Was the kid somehow important?

"Yes, my Lord," Bartemius replied honestly. "He's a student of mine."

"Who," started Lord Voldemort, "is the closest one to him there? His… closest _friend_ , so to say."

 _'Why does he want to know?'_ Barty wondered, and tried to recall with whom Potter seemed to be the closest. He couldn't quite remember… he wasn't sure. There was that girl, Peppino. And two boys – a tall blond one, Truls Kettil, whose records spoke of aggressive magic best suitable for offense. The other one was the red-haired Lennart boy, whose talent in Charms was remarkably superior to that of not only his classmates, but probably many of the older students, too.

The Dark Lord sighed, sounding displeased, and put a small vial full of light blue liquid onto the table.

"Look at this, Bartemius," the man hissed. Barty, obediently, stared at the vial. "This, as you can see, is a potion. Your task is very simple – find the one closest to Harry Potter and make him or her drink this potion. That is all."

Questions were barely held back as Barty nodded, wondering if he'd have a dead student in his hands soon. "Yes, my lord."

"Once you're done," the Dark Lord continued, "you'll bring the vial to me. You are to tell _no one_ – directly or indirectly – of this. You will not research the potion and you will do nothing more or less than what I told you to. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," Barty said, torn between feeling thankful for not being sent somewhere suspicious and wary at the thought of feeding a student an unknown potion.

"You have three days," the Dark Lord said, his red eyes almost glowing with glee. "Dismissed. Get to work."

*

Harry was still sleepy when Truls dragged him to have lunch with the rest of their classmates. The dark-haired boy could barely keep his eyes open, and for some reason Heidi, Petronella and Filippa couldn't stop making cooing noises at him. It was disturbing, to say the least.

"My muscles are still sore from yesterday," Björn said, piling what looked like grilled fish and roasted potatoes onto his plate. "Speaking of yesterday, did anyone else see my darling Mette? Her skirt is shorter than it was last week."

"Because Viktor Krum was confirmed single only three days ago," Filippa said dryly. "Before that, nobody knew for sure if he was dating some girl who just didn't attend Durmstrang. But he doesn't, never has, so he's the most sought-after guy at school right now. Which leads to shorter skirts, apparently."

"Well, at least in this liberated world she can do what she wants," Heidi said. Filippa shook her head with a frown on her face.

"This world isn't half as liberated as you think," the Italian girl said. "Liberated? This world where everything is judged and criticised and categorised? This world where, if you're a vegetarian, you get criticised, and if you're _not_ a vegetarian, you get criticised for that too? This world where, if a woman wears short skirts and a sleeveless top and as much make-up as she wants she's a slut or if she wears a burqa she's oppressed? This world where you're always either too thin or too fat? This world where, if you have an opinion, it's always the wrong one? This world where every person with a flaw feels persecuted so badly that even the slightest insult will hurt them deeply? Is _this_ what you call liberation?"

"She's got a point," Petronella said, and Harry was almost startled at the grim tone the girl was using. "People are brainwashed to believe that they're free to think and do what they want as long as they harm nobody else, but society' s oppression is like an invisible chain. How pleased must the brainwashers be – people have faced the uncomfortable truth and opted to believe their comfortable lie."

"That's not entirely true," Heidi argued. "If you're brave enough and with a backbone, then you can be the person you want to be, no matter how different you are."

"And by standing out in a crowd you have to bear the burden, the stigma of being different," Filippa sighed. "The prejudice of people is a terrible thing. In theory, you're free. But in reality, you're not. How many of us are right now free to do whatever we want?"

"The problem is that people mistake their freedom of speech and expressing opinions as the freedom to judge," Björn said. "Most people do that, actually."

"But isn't having an opinion already classified as judgement, no matter how private it is?" Heidi asked curiously. Harry replied, shaking his head:

"No," he said. "The difference between an opinion and a judgement is, for example, the difference between 'I don't like apples' and 'apples are bad'. You're free to have your own opinion – that you don't like apples – but you're not entitled to label _all_ apples as bad just because you don't like them. That'd be rather…"

"Egocentric," Clemens finished for him with a nod. "I get your point. Never thought of it like that before, to be honest."

"To think that from discussing the length of Mette Erling's skirt we ended up talking about human nature," Björn said, sounding oddly proud of himself. "Next we can talk about her unde—"

"We could start a conversation about the regular size of potatoes in Asia and end up discussing human nature," Filippa cut in, before changing the subject. "I heard that seventh year students get to drink wine at dinner. How unfair is that?"

"You drink wine at home?" Petronella asked curiously.

"Italian, duh," Björn told her. "She probably started drinking wine from the bottle as a baby."

"Hilarious, Björn," Filippa said coldly. "I'm splitting my sides with laughter, I am."

"Oh Merlin, we've got Arithmancy tomorrow," Harry suddenly realized. "I haven't done my homework yet."

"I haven't done mine, either," Truls said. "We can study together."

"You two always hang out together," Heidi suddenly said, leaning forward. "There are going to be rumours sooner or later if you don't put some kind of a distance betwe—" The words seemed to die on her lips when Heidi finally saw the expression Truls was regarding her with. A cold feeling washed over her body and with a small shudder she leaned back and pressed herself closer to Nikolai.

"Rumours?" Harry asked, oblivious to what had made Heidi quiet down. "What rumours?"

"Never mind," Filippa replied, pushing a mini pizza onto his plate. "Eat, my dear. You too, Nella. You're too skinny, girl. Don't you eat? Honestly, you guys make me feel fat." Harry saw Clemens grin suddenly and open his mouth, and with dread he realized that the other boy was going to make a joke that would set Filippa on warpath.

 _'I guess researching horcruxes can wait,'_ Harry thought, enjoying the time he was spending with his friends. 'I don't want these people as my enemies.'

*

"I hate idiots," Bellatrix said, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. Sirius yawned, shuffling a few papers to the left, and then back in front of him again. The words _'Triwizard Tournament – Task Ideas'_ stared up at him from an otherwise empty paper.

"I hate _work_ ," Sirius said. "Aren't you supposed to be torturing those poor spies of yours into submission and obedience?"

"I sent a few out to work already, but the newer ones are pathetic," Bellatrix sniffed. "As soon as I use Legilimency on them they start whining and collapsing and bleeding from their ears. _You_ try to work when your test subjects keep dying."

"I don't think they're meant to do that," Sirius pointed out, before yawning again. "I'm hungry."

"What are you even _doing_ there?" Bellatrix asked, sitting up on the couch. "I heard that you have… some kind of a festival to plan. It better be something interesting."

"It's not a festival," Sirius replied. "It's the Triwizard Tournament. It's a magical contest held between three schools. It's an ancient tournament, and the first one was held in twelve ninety-four. Each school is represented by one Champion, and the Champions compete in three extremely dangerous tasks that are meant to test magical ability, intelligence and courage. The prize for the victor is the Triwizard Cup and money. However, the Tournament was discontinued in seventeen ninety-two when the death toll became too high."

"What's wrong with a few deaths? It just sets the mood! Not to mention if there are a few mudbloods at Hogwarts – I have no idea why they're still allowed to partake in education – we could use as target practice, to create a nice atmosphere."

" _Anyway_ , cousin. Now the Dark Lord has given _me_ the task to bring back this tournament. I've already decided that the schools taking part in this will be Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons and the competition itself will be held at Hogwarts. I'm now working on the tasks."

"Ooh," Bellatrix said, her dark eyes suddenly sparkling. "I want to help. Who are the judges?"

"Traditionally, the judges were the Headmasters – or Headmistresses – of the schools," Sirius said, "but I thought that they'd end up being biased if that's the case. I mean, can you see Yaxley being fair? Yeah, my point exactly. So I'm choosing three neutral people who are not in the school board. I will be too busy to judge, myself, but—"

"I'm one," Bellatrix decided. "I'm going to be a judge."

"Merlin save us," Sirius muttered. "But _fine_. And if you're not doing anything else right now anyway, then come up with task ideas."

"Just lock them in a room with transparent walls and have them duel to death while we watch," Bellatrix suggested, lying back down. "Last one alive is the winner."

"We want something _spectacular_. Something… _showy_. Flashy. Interesting. Three tasks, Bellatrix, not one."

"Let's have them hunt werewolves during a full moon."

"And how are we supposed to watch _that_ happen? No. Besides, it's boring. Another no. We need something new, something…" Sirius paused, looking for the words, before continuing: "something real." There was a sudden silence in the room as the two Blacks thought about the words, before they slowly turned to look at each other.

"Real," Bellatrix murmured. "Like… the Rebels…"

"It could be a _wonderful_ experience," Sirius said, his mind coming up with more possibilities on how to use the Rebels. "For the audience, at least."

*

"We'll be leaving Ireland soon," a Death Eater – Septimus Rolfe, if James remembered correctly – said. "About time. Bloody hell, feels like I've been stuck here for _years_. But at least the place is clean now from traitors and we can relax a little bit."

"Where do you think they'll send us next?" James asked as the two walked through the muddy roads of St. Cattlesweep, a small village not too far away from Dublin. "Think Italy? Spain?"

"Or France. Thornfield from the fifth division said that France is _infested_ with Rebels. Although the French government might not allow British Death Eaters to fight there," Rolfe replied. The two men entered a tavern where many of their squad members were already drinking. James could see Pettigrew sitting alone in the far corner.

"Can't wait to drop by home," a man was saying when Rolfe and James sat down. "Haven't seen my wife and kids in months."

"You got kids, Potter?" Rolfe asked, and James nodded, accepting the drink offered to him. "A son. Harry," James said. "He's in Durmstrang. Third year."

" _Elite_ , mate," Rolfe whistled. "My nephew tried to get into Durmstrang last year, but he failed. I don't have any kids, myself. My wife is still young, though, so we'll see about that."

"Just take care that she doesn't see about that with someone else," a man nearby laughed loudly, before trying to grab Rolfe's drink. Sourly the other man sent a stinging hex and turned back to James with a scowl on his face.

"Asshole," he grumbled. "She wouldn't. She's a good woman, she is."

"My wife died," James said, the gloom of months ago returning now with vengeance. "Last summer. She was a healer, was sent to Italy. And then she died there." Rolfe didn't say anything, just refilled James's pitcher with more ale.

"And then my son," James started, before pausing to stare at the alcohol in front of him. Harry. What had he promised Harry? There was a nagging feeling as if… he was supposed to remember… "And my son… I… should have taken more care of him."

"If your son is in Durmstrang, you've got nothing to fear," Rolfe assured him. "The kids there, they've got their future bright and welcoming. Nobody will turn down a job application from someone who studied in _that_ school. Not since the Dark Lord made the adjustments and made it special. The kids there have no worries, nothing that would make them fail."

 _'Is that really the case, Harry?'_ James thought, feeling tired and so very old and useless. _'But if your life was really full of careless days at school, from where did you get that maturity I can't remember you learning from home?'_

"Soon we all can go home," Rolfe continued, gulping down a few mouthfuls of ale before continuing. "And then we'll get to live with our families again, and if there's anything that needs to be fixed, we can finally fix it without worrying about the next great absence."

"Wouldn't that be nice," James muttered, and he couldn't help but glance at where Pettigrew was sitting alone. Pettigrew didn't look dangerous or impressive in any shape or form. He didn't come across as a threat and didn't inspire feelings of wariness. And yet, when he suddenly looked up from his drink and stared at James with his watery blue eyes, the dark-haired man couldn't help but shudder.

He couldn't wait to leave this place and go home. At least there he'd never have to see Pettigrew again.

*

It would have to be Truls Kettil. That boy was, without a doubt, the closest friend of Harry Potter.

This was the conclusion Bartemius Crouch Jr. came to after a whole day of observing. It was painfully obvious, now that he bothered to actually watch the third year students. Where Potter was, Kettil was as well. Always together, and most of the time so close that another person couldn't come between them. Strangely, that lack of distance didn't seem to be a result of conscious effort. It was actually… a bit odd, seeing boys at that age being so close.

The more he observed, the more aware of it he became. The proximity, the touches. They were young, though, and Barty couldn't help but get a sense of wrongness from the thought of those two being intimate in any way. They were too young – just children, still.

 _'Focus on what's relevant,'_ Barty told himself, trying to shrug off the uncomfortable feelings he had.

Making Kettil drink the potion would be easy enough – all Barty would need to do was use a house-elf to include it in the kid's breakfast or something along those lines. So no, he wasn't worried about whether or not he'd be able to succeed in the mission. Rather, he was worried about the aftermath.

Barty hadn't inspected the potion – for all he knew, the Dark Lord could legilimence the truth out of him and he'd be in a world of trouble and pain as a result of going against direct orders. But he was curious, and very much concerned. He doubted that the potion would kill the boy – why would the Dark Lord benefit from killing Potter’s closest friend?

 _'Or rather, the questions should be: what brought Potter to the Dark Lord's attention?'_ Barty thought while doing his regular morning exercise _. 'The Dark Lord knows Potter. Why? Potter, whose family is not high-ranked. Potter, who doesn't seem to stand out in anything in a way that would make him more remarkable than the rest of the special students here in Durmstrang. Why Potter?'_

What made _Potter_ different from everybody else? Well, the brat could mask his presence alarmingly well… but that was nothing outstanding. Surprising for someone so young, yes, but nothing special. Not unless… it was part of a bigger picture.

What would happen to Kettil after drinking the potion, and how would that affect Potter?

 _'I shouldn't think about this,'_ Barty told himself _. 'The Dark Lord's orders were clear.'_ He didn't want to end up being tormented by curiosity about a mystery he had no permission to solve. That would be worse than being stuck with Gilderoy Lockhart in a room.

Too much had happened for Barty to voluntarily risk his position for a bit of curiosity. He wasn't where he stood now simply because of luck and connections. It had taken a lot of time and effort to work off his father's legacy and build a reputation good enough for people to forget or ignore what Crouch Sr. had done before the Dark Lord took control.

"Tip," Barty called, and a little house-elf appeared. He levitated the vial with the potion towards the elf, and frowned at the trembling creature. It was actually one of his own, not one of the creatures that belonged to Durmstrang. He didn't trust those things with important tasks such as this one. "Make sure that the third year student Truls Kettil drinks this potion, one way or another. Don't let anyone know of this. Once you're done, bring be back the vial."

"Yes Master," the house-elf stammered, bowing deeply before taking the vial and vanishing. Barty stood still for a few moments, wondering what would happen next. Should he start paying more attention to Potter? He'd have to observe Kettil, that was a given, but what about the others?

Or should he just pretend that nothing had happened?

*

"Does anyone know how the Bitsheet Bumblebee affects Draught of Pleasant Dreams?" Filippa asked, looking up from her potions essay. "Harry? Nella?"

"If the chopped bits aren't fried first the draught turns into a nightmare potion," Petronella replied. Everyone was, once again, in Harry's flat doing their homework. The boy himself was trying to make sense of the transfiguration essay he was supposedly writing.

"How about we have a break and go play some Quidditch?" Clemens suggested suddenly. "Just for half an hour."

"I'm in," Björn immediately, throwing his quill down. Truls turned to Harry with a questioning look on his face.

"You go and have fun," Harry told him. "I'll try to tackle this hurdle first."

"All right," Truls said, standing up. Eventually, Nikolai and Heidi left as well, and only Harry, Petronella, Filippa and Jakob remained in Harry's flat, working quietly on their essays. After a few minutes of quiet working, Filippa sighed and put down her quill.

"This is so complicated," she said, pulling closer a potions book she had borrowed from the library. "Why's the Christmas Holiday so far away?"

"What are you going to do on Christmas?" Petronella asked, pushing aside her own essay and leaning forward. "If there are any fashion shows going on, please invite me too, okay?"

"Of course," Filippa replied. "But don't you want to spend the time with your family?"

"Not really," Petronella snorted. "They're not… well… whatever. What about you guys?"

"Nothing special," Jakob replied, and Harry nodded, agreeing with him.

"I'm probably going to spend the holiday here," Harry said. "I've got no reason to go home, so… might as well stay here."

"With Truls?" Filippa asked, grinning. Harry rolled his eyes and set down his quill as well and didn't reply. Petronella, however, spoke up.

"You know, I've been wanting to ask about that," she started. "How come you're so… close to him? I mean, I know you're best friends or something but Truls – his whole family – has a rather dangerous reputation."

"First time I've ever heard about that," Harry said warily. "Can you elaborate?"

"Well, Heidi has told me a few things," Petronella said. "She's Swedish too, you know, and their families move in the same circles. And… there was this scandal about his older brother poisoning people and stuff."

"Truls is scary," Jakob said quietly. "Not in the same sense as Nikolai, though."

"Nikolai is evil," Filippa agreed grimly. "The things that guy has done…"

"But what makes you say that _Truls_ is scary?" Harry demanded to know. "He's the nicest, most loyal person I have ever known. So, no offence to you guys, but if you can't back up any of your claims, then don't say things like that so carelessly."

"It's just hard to explain," Filippa told him. "I don't know much either, and I know nothing certain about Truls's family. All of my comments are only about him and according to what I have observed with my own eyes. Truls is _usually_ the nice, funny guy you see him as, but sometimes it seems as if something _clicks_ inside his head and he changes completely. I can't give you any proof yet, so I won't tell you to believe me, Harry. But you'll find out on your own, eventually."

"It's not that Truls is a _bad_ person, though," Jakob said. "Just sometimes very brutal and ruthless. Like when Nikolai said something about Harry and Truls just _glared_. I thought he'd kill Nikolai, that's how mean his glare was."

"How come you guys know about that and I don't?" Harry asked, feeling almost angry. "I'm with him most of the time. So how come you know and I don't?"

"He's careful when you're nearby," Petronella replied quietly. "He's very, _very_ careful when you're by his side." There was something in the way she said those words, something in the expressions of Filippa and Jakob as well, that chilled Harry to the bone.

"I think I know Truls better than you do," he replied, pressing his lips into a tight line.

"Rather than know better, you know sides of him we haven't seen," Jakob said. "And we, too, know a side of him that you're unfamiliar with. I think it's because he cares about you the most so he doesn't treat us the same way. He's pretty… well…"

"Possessive about you," Filippa for Jakob. "He doesn't really let anyone else near you, does he?"

"Don't be silly," Harry replied, reaching for his quill and pulling his half-written essay closer. "Let's not talk about this anymore. It's nonsense."

"As you wish," Petronella said. "Mind if I make some tea? I feel a bit thirsty."

"Make some for all of us," Filippa told her. "Please."

"Consider it yours," Harry said, nodding towards the kitchen. "Have fun." He kept his tone light and expression neutral, but inside he couldn't stop thinking about what the others had told him. Truls wasn't like that. Truls was… well, he was Harry's best, best, _best_ friend. And Harry trusted him with his life.

When Truls came back with the others, he sat next to Harry like he always did. Harry glanced at -Filippa, who was looking at him with a serious expression. To prove a point – he wasn't sure what kind of a point exactly – Harry didn't move away even though the other boy sat close enough for their bodies to be touching.

Filippa bit her lip, unsure of what to do next. She had _tried_ to tell Harry, but the other boy seemed to be dead set on not believing that there was anything off about Truls. She'd have to wait, and hopefully get some kind of a proof before trying again.

 _'It's not that Truls is a bad guy,'_ the girl thought, sighing and looking down at her essay again. _'I just don't think that he's… a good guy either.'_

*

Thursday evening the house-elf Tip popped into Professor Crouch's quarters, holding an empty vial. Barty took the vial, sent the elf away and got ready to go to meet the Dark Lord again. He wondered if there'd be some news about Truls Kettil falling ill soon, but then decided to not think about it.

Really. Because it just wasn't any of his business. He had nothing to do with it. Dark Lord's orders. He wasn't responsible for this.

 _'I just hope that the brat won't die,'_ Barty thought while turning towards the fireplace. _'Not that I care about him personally, but the performance of the other kids could suffer because of any sudden deaths. Merlin knows they're now bad enough. If the progress was any slower it'd be a disaster.'_

Entering the headquarters where without a doubt the Dark Lord was, Barty stopped in the front hall to be called further in. He wasn't sure how long he'd have to wait – he had come unannounced, after all, and the Dark Lord was probably busy. Much to his relief, however, it took less than an hour for a house-elf to appear, telling him to proceed towards the office room where the Dark Lord was.

 _'I've met him dozens of times,'_ Barty thought, bowing deeply _. 'I should stop feeling so surprised every time I see how young he looks.'_ "My Lord. Thank you for your time."

"You have succeeded in your mission, Bartemius?" the Dark Lord said. Barty swallowed and nodded.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Well done," Lord Voldemort murmured when the Death Eater presented the empty vial to him. "I trust that the boy has already drunk the potion and soon… it will take effect. Well done indeed. Now… step closer." Feeling his heart beat loudly against his ribs, Barty took a few steps closer towards the Dark Lord and kneeled down. A moment later he felt the man's cold fingertips lifting his face up.

"Look into my eyes," the Dark Lord ordered, his voice, as usual, void of emotion. Barty swallowed and did as told, knowing that he was leaving his mind vulnerable for inspection. He was glad that he hadn't gone against the Dark Lord's orders, having opted to ignore his curiosity instead.

"How smart of you," the Dark Lord murmured, clearly having read that stray thought. "You have done well indeed. However… leaving you curious isn't something I intend on doing." The Dark Lord let go of Barty, taking a step back, as if reluctant to stand too close to a mere mortal for any longer than necessary.

 _'He's going to tell me?'_ Barty thought, feeling surprised. _'Well, maybe I should have expected that. He'd need to tell me for me to know how to deal with the aftermath.'_ It _did_ make him feel honoured, of course, to be the only one in the know about this secret plan.

"Unsatisfied curiosity brings unexpected problems," Lord Voldemort continued. "Which is something I wish to avoid."

"Thank you, my Lord," Barty said, bowing again. "I'm most honoured."

"Long story short," the Dark Lord started, turning slowly towards Barty. " _Obliviate_. "

*

"Are you all right?" Harry whispered to Truls. They were in the Charms classroom, and Harry had noticed that his best friend seemed to be a bit off his game. He looked rather pale and tired and Harry contemplated taking him to the hospital wing.

"Just got a headache," Truls replied. "Probably just muscle pain in the shoulders and neck. I get headaches easily when my muscles are tense."

"I can give you a massage later on if you want to," Harry offered quietly. "You can stay over at my place tonight." At this Truls smiled, moving to rest his right hand on Harry's left. He didn't reply anything for a while, content with just looking at Harry for a few moments in silence. In the front of the class, Professor Elis was explaining something about the numerous uses of a scrubbing charm and how it could be used to scrub the skin right off a person.

 _'Why would I ever even wish to use that kind of a spell for that sort of purposes?'_ Harry thought, and sighed. He glanced at Truls again, feeling concerned. He thought about Jakob, too, and Jakob's illness, and hated himself a little bit for being grateful that it wasn't Truls who was sick.

 _'I'm a terrible person,'_ Harry thought gloomily, before his thoughts wandered to what Filippa, Petronella and Jakob had told him about Truls. He didn't want to believe their suspicions - whatever it was that they suspected. They didn't know Truls the way he did, and... well... they just _didn't_. He couldn't, however, just dismiss their claims as lies because they were his friends too, and he _knew_ that Filippa in particular would never lie to him.

"For homework," Professor Elis said, "I want you to list five household charms that could be used for defence during an attack. I want you to be able to tell me about them adequately without checking your notes. Dismissed."

"Not the scrubbing spell, though," Heidi was saying when they gathered their books. "I mean, the Professor already mentioned it. Maybe a cleaning charm? A dusting charm?"

"How would you use a dusting charm for defence?" Filippa asked, shaking her head. "I'd say... maybe a waxing charm."

"Chopping charm is considered a household spell," Nikolai said. Harry nodded - he had actually been rather surprised when he had learned that bit.

"If you're feeling sick then maybe we should drop by the hospital wing and get you a headache potion," Harry suggested, looking at Truls. The blond boy once again refused, with a small smile on his lips.

"I'll be fine soon enough," Truls said. "Really, Harry, you needn't worry."

"Our next Charms lesson is tomorrow morning," Petronella said. "I'm off to the library, I suppose. Anyone tagging along?"

"I will," Björn said. "I have some other books I need to check out anyway." Harry and Truls didn't stay with the others to sort out who'd go to the library and who wouldn't, continuing their way together towards the apartment complex instead.

"I'll just quickly do my homework, have a shower, get changed and then I'll come by," Truls said. Harry nodded.

"You'll stay the night, right? Want me to make dinner or anything?"

"Personally, I'm not hungry, but if you want to eat then fine."

"Nah," Harry said, smiling. "See you in a few hours, Truls." He waved to his best friend before entering his flat and closing the door behind him. Aside from the charms homework, he'd only need to quickly finish his Dark Arts essay and then have a shower as well. He wasn't actually all too sure about how to give anyone a massage, but he did have a vague idea.

Besides, Truls would guide him if he did anything wrong.

*

"You finished delivering a file to me," Tom said, planting the carefully constructed images into Crouch's memory. "And now you're leaving. If you wrote down any notes regarding this task I gave you, you'll simply dismiss them as something unimportant and feel the urge to destroy those papers immediately. You can leave now."

"Yes, my Lord," the dazed man replied, scrambling up. He was blinking rapidly and seemed slightly unbalanced, which, from Tom's point of view, wasn't an uncommon look on him. Crouch had _always_ come across as slightly unbalanced, regardless of whether he was affected by magic or not.

Tom watched him leave, before sighing and disposing of the vial. It was done. He'd have to wait for a few long hours before opening the connection, but that task wasn't difficult at all. The toughest part had been brewing the potion, and he had, of course, succeeded in that already. Erasing Crouch's memories had been just a step of caution – Tom knew how dangerous curiosity in other people could be.

 _"Well, look at that smile,"_ Nagini hissed, lifting her head up from behind a pile of books on the table nearby. _"Something good happened?"_

"You could say that," Tom said, brushing his fringe to the side and sighing, feeling content. "Something potentially good, indeed." He was so _close_ to achieving his goal that it made him feel almost giddy.

He wouldn't be able to control the body of the target – in fact; he wouldn't be able to even affect the target's thoughts. This was more of a way for Tom to _see_ through the target's eyes for a limited amount of time and hope that Potter would actually trust the person with his secrets or reveal something about himself. The only way for Tom to really be able to control the targets body would be if the target was asleep or unconscious for some reason.

He had plucked out the name Kettil from Crouch's mind, and assumed that to be the target's name. How close was Kettil to Harry? In a way, Tom hoped for them to be quite close, for him to be able to benefit from the close ties between the two. On the other hand it felt… _strange_ to think that the strange child had a close friend. Tom didn't know why it felt odd – it just did.

 _'Even if Potter doesn't reveal any of his secrets,'_ Tom thought, sitting down on his chair, _'at least I might figure out how to deal with him. What to bribe him with. Or what to threaten him with.'_ All of his plans seemed to be going well enough, but the biggest elation was brought by the feeling that _soon_ the Potter Problem would be solved.

"About time," Tom muttered.

 _"Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, you once told me, "_ Nagini hissed. _"I'd start worrying, if I was you."_

"Don't be foolish, Nagini," Tom sneered. "I was simply thinking that soon Potter—"

_"Oh no, not the dead-alive boy again."_

"— will be a problem of the past."

 _"You mean,"_ Nagini hissed, sounding far too sceptical for a snake _, "that if you figure him out you'll… what, kill him? Stop thinking about him? Stop talking to him? Forget about him?"_

"Well," Tom started hesitantly. It was a good question – what would he do after figuring Potter out? He didn't feel like killing the boy and the thought of purposefully treating him like a stranger didn't sound… _natural_ , oddly enough. It made him feel weird. "Well…"

_"That's what I thought. "_

"I didn't even say anything yet!" Tom protested, before taking a deep breath and calming down. "I'll observe first. When I know _what_ exactly I'm dealing with, I'll figure out _how_ to deal with it." If, after all, Potter turned out to be as useful as Tom wanted to believe him to be, he could just proceed with his make-Potter-owe-you-a-life-debt plan.

_"Why can't you just let me eat him? "_

"I don't want him to die yet. I have _plans_ for him!"

 _"That doesn't make sense to me,"_ Nagini hissed, sounding disapproving. _"I do not understand."_

"It all makes sense," Tom told her firmly. "I just don't know how, yet."

*

"Feeling okay now?" Harry asked, rolling off Truls to lie next to him on the bed. The other boy sighed and nodded, the tension gone from his muscles. They were both lying down on Harry's bed, in his dark and quiet flat.

"Yeah, felt good." Truls's headache, however, seemed to only intensify. He didn't tell Harry that, though, opting to just yawn and close his eyes, ready to fall asleep. He smiled, being clearly aware of Harry so close to him, which made him feel… weird. _Happy_ , way too happy. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Harry replied. "Besides, you've done it to me too so it's payback rather than a favour. Do you need anything?" Truls blinked his eyes open and took in the sight of his grinning friend, which made his own lips pull into a smile, too.

"Just sleep," he said, closing his eyes again. "Come on, you. We've got charms early tomorrow."

"I'll set the alarm clock first," Harry muttered, and Truls heard him getting out of bed, setting the alarm before crawling back and pulling up the covers. "If your headache comes back in the morning, we'll go to the hospital wing."

"Mmkay," Truls mumbled, and yawned again. Harry grinned, and settled next to his friend, ready to go to sleep as well. He had decided to ignore what Filippa and the others had told him about Truls, because even if Truls wasn't as good of a friend to them as he was to Harry, he couldn't bring himself to care. Truls had always been there for him, since the time they met. Or well, since the life-debt…

 _'I really should research that one soon, though,'_ Harry thought _. 'Just in case.'_ It didn't seem so urgent anymore, however, and the idea was pushed away as sleep claimed him, too. The room – the whole apartment, in fact – was dark and silent as the two boys slept side by side on the bed.

It wasn't till a few hours later that Truls suddenly frowned in his sleep, sighed and shuddered, before slowly opening his eyes.

His eyes, that weren't blue anymore but a deep red, widened with shock as they took in the sight of Harry Potter sleeping next to him.


	19. Chapter 19

Tom didn't know what to think.

He didn't… know… what to  _think_. It felt as if his mind was suddenly blank, as if it was void of any thoughts and feelings aside from confusion and shock. So startled he was, that he barely even realized it when his awareness slid back into his own body, undoing all the hard work Tom had put into this project so far.

" _Your face looks funny_ ," Nagini hissed, seeing her Master's expression. " _Did your thoughts fight and break something in your head?_ "

"He," Tom started suddenly, still not looking at Nagini but at the empty air in front of him. "He was sleeping next to me. I mean, no, not next to  _me_ , but… Durmstrang dorms aren't… he shouldn't have a room-mate, I am sure of that. How come, then…?"

" _I don't understand._ "

"Why would he share his bed with… anyone if he doesn't have to? Are they having a sleepover? Why would he want to…? It's dangerous, how could he trust anyone to not put a spell on him while he's not awake to even know about it? A simple Imperio… maybe  _I_ should use that on him. Would teach him a lesson."

" _I'm not getting it, friend_ ," Nagini hissed, slithering closer. " _I order you to make some sense._ "

"Shut up," Tom replied, clenching his eyes shut. He scowled, then grimaced, then shrugged and shook his head. "I do not understand people," he said finally. "Or maybe he's… oh, who cares. I tested the potion and it works." He hadn't tested for how long he could control the boy's body, but then again that wasn't what he was aiming for in the first place. If he was to take over the boy's body, it was probable that some of his own features would show – the eyes, for example, and maybe the hair, too.

He had intended for the possession to last for much longer, but no matter – he knew now what to do if he wished to do this again. Too bad, however, that his options were limited in terms of what he was capable of doing while in someone else’s body. Too bad he wouldn't be able to browse through the boy's memories – he'd need legilimency for that – but this would have to do for now.

 _'I'm thinking too much,'_ Tom decided.  _'There was absolutely no reason for me to behave like an unprepared… idiot. This isn't me. This isn't the way I act.'_  To be fair, though, waking up in the same bed as Harry Potter was a strange and unexpected experience. The man sighed again and summoned a house-elf, ordering it to bring him a cup of tea. Nagini was still staring at him, before slowly lowering her head onto a pillow.

" _If you kill the boy, all your confusion regarding him will vanish._ "

"But so will the possibilities!"

" _You're beyond my help,_ " Nagini hissed. " _Don't talk to me anymore. You might give me the harpies._ "

"You're the one who started talking to me!" Tom exclaimed, before sighing and flinging a hex at a vase nearby, making it explode. He then frowned and turned to look at his snake. "Harpies? "

" _I heard that one of your white-faced people got harpies from a Muggle woman,_ " Nagini replied, before turning away. " _He didn't seem happy about it._ "

"Harpies," Tom repeated, imagining a Muggle woman with a cage full of screaming Harpies. One Harpy would be bad enough, to think that  _more_  would be available— but no, Nagini must have misheard or misunderstood. One Harpy would easily be able to slaughter twenty, thirty humans before they'd manage to even wound it. A woman who'd have enough Harpies to give was… not real. Anyway… he didn't really care enough to think about that.

Muggles just didn't make sense.

"Potter," Tom hissed, glaring at the darkness outside. "Harry Potter. Once I know his secrets and solve the puzzle, I'll decide whether or not to kill him." But what if he'd end up  _not_  wanting to kill Potter? Potter, with his ridiculous Gryffindor habits would be a bad,  _bad_  Death Eater. Tom knew with absolute certainty that if Potter didn't somehow amputate his morals and mutilate his personality, he'd never _ever_ torture anyone the way Tom would expect his elite soldiers to be able to do.

 _'Maybe I should give him a crash course with Bellatrix,'_  Tom thought, finding the thought amusing. If he did end up wanting to let Potter live, then he probably would do exactly that.

*

"Charms this early in the morning should be illegal," Björn said and yawned. Harry, just as sleepy as the red-haired boy, nodded and closed his eyes. If only he could go back to bed and sleep a few extra hours he'd do exactly that. No matter the season, why was the world always colder outside the bed in the mornings?

"Did you finish your homework?" Petronella asked while rummaging through her bag. "I'm so nervous about this. I just ran out of ideas of how to use household charms and I had to redo my list a few times because there were some _ridiculous_ ideas and—"

"As long as you got five, you won't fail, even if the explanations aren't stellar," Heidi replied. "Did anyone else include the freezing charm  _glacius_  in the list?" Harry nodded and tried to stop himself from yawning again.

"I did," he said. "Truls did too. And Filippa, who probably has a list of twenty instead of five."

"Björn should get an award for most creative uses of levitation charm and carrots," Jakob said, and grinned. "I mean honestly, levitating carrots to block every orifice in the human body? Can you even  _do_ that?"

"With practice, I'm sure I could," Björn replied dismissively. Their conversation halted when they saw Professor Elis approaching with a stern expression. The man pushed past them and opened the classroom's door, but oddly enough didn't step in first like he usually did.

"Now, the lot of you," he said instead, turning to look at them with a serious expression. "You'll go in there and take your seats – quietly. Then you'll open your books and start reading from chapter seventeen onwards till chapter twenty. On Saturday I'll quiz you about it."

"Yes, sir," the students mumbled, and Harry couldn't help but feel curious about what was going on – this procedure wasn't ordinary in Durmstrang. Professor Elis wasn't done yet, though.

"I will not be here to keep an eye on you," the man said, "but do not for a moment think that your misbehaviour will not be revealed to me if anything was to occur. Now, Mr. Marvin…"

"Er, what?" Clemens asked, looking just as surprised as his classmates at being singled out. "I mean, yes sir?"

"Follow me to the Principal's office," Professor Elis said. With a wary expression, Clemens did exactly that, and the others stared after the two till they were out of sight before finally moving into the classroom and taking their own seats in silence. Harry felt strange and even slightly sick when he thought that once upon a time there had been _ten_ , not just eight in a classroom.

 _'He'll be back,'_ Harry told himself sternly, remembering Lorenzo. _'Nobody is going to die.'_

"What do you think that was about?" Petronella whispered suddenly, looking clearly worried. "He hasn't broken any rules, has he?"

"None important enough to warrant a trip to the Headmaster's office, that's for sure," Filippa said. "His grades are good, right? He hasn't failed anything, has he? Or cheated in an exam?"

"No, no, he hasn't done anything like that, I'm sure," Jakob assured her. "This has to be something else. Maybe some news from his family. If someone is injured, some families prefer to contact the student through the school staff instead of directly."

 _'I got a message first from Mum's boss, I think,'_  Harry thought, before shaking his head.  _'And then Sirius took over. The school was just informed separately.'_

"We can ask him when he comes back. Next period is History of Magic and I doubt that they'll keep him from attending today's classes even if he's in trouble of some kind," Truls said. "For now, we better focus on reading these chapters and prepare for the quiz Professor Elis mentioned."

The minutes passed, and eventually – to Harry it felt like an eternity later – Professor Elis returned to dismiss them. He had come back alone, Clemens was nowhere in sight. For a few hopeful moments Harry assumed that Clemens would be waiting for them in front of the History classroom, but he was absent from that lesson too.

"He'll come, eventually," Filippa said, looking at the others with a worried expression. "Today. Right? Any minute now. Or maybe next period. We've got Ancient Runes and you guys know how much he loves that subject. He won't miss it, for sure. He'll be there."

"Yeah," Petronella agreed, nodding. "He'll be there."

But he wasn't.

*

The sound of her quick footsteps echoed in the empty corridors of the manor as Bellatrix Lestrange made her way towards the meeting hall, where the Dark Lord and a few others of the Elite were most likely already waiting. She _hated_ being late, hated the thought of making the Dark Lord wait, but this time… it was for a _reason_.

"My Lord," she said, curtsying deeply once entering the hall. "I apologize for my tardiness." She could see the white-masked elite, not unlike herself, whispering amongst each other. She knew which ones did, Bellatrix knew all the subtle differences between the masks and the way these fools stood – later on, she would gladly track down Mulciber and Karkaroff for a delightful and clearly needed face-to-face lesson of attitude.

In fact, she kind of didn't understand _why_ they would even need masks anymore. They didn't need to hide their identities and everyone knew who each one was anyway – well, almost everyone. Why couldn't they just ditch the masks?

 _'Just seeing them irritates me,'_ the woman thought, her fingers itching to wrap around the wand in her arm-holster and show Mulciber and Karkaroff the meaning of pain.

"I trust that you have a reason for that, Bellatrix," Lord Voldemort murmured, and Bellatrix curtseyed again, nodding eagerly. Her handsome Dark Lord was sitting on his throne, with his snake on the armrest. What did the serpent tell its master? Did it speak of desires to hunt and maim or did it whisper of secrets only snakes knew? Nagini, the Dark Lord's snake, was truly a creature of great mystique and wisdom.

"My Lord," she said again. "I come bearing good news." She knew that the attention of everyone was fixed on her now. Well, let them stare! She was the most competent one and they really ought to finally accept that fact. She was an example to be followed and a perfect Death Eater in every way.

"Speak," Lord Voldemort ordered. Bellatrix took a deep breath before starting.

"The first team of spies I sent have returned with important information," she said. "According to documents they managed to obtain, there are seven big Rebel camps in Europe, and twenty-four small ones, resulting in a total of thirty-one camps."

"And the locations of these camps?" Lord Voldemort asked. It wasn't evident from his tone or expression, but the news pleased him to no end. Even though the actual amount of Rebel camps was surprisingly large – he hadn't expected there to be so _many_ of them – he was pleased. No wonder the battles seemed to be never-ending.

"The exact locations of only five have been confirmed so far, my Lord, but I'm working on confirming the locations of the rest, too," Bellatrix said. "I sent my spies back to keep working, but if you wish for us to attack—"

"No," Lord Voldemort interrupted. "We will attack after we have located at least half of the camps. Moving before then would be unwise. We will first deal with the front in Italy, and only later shall we attack the rest."

"Ah, my Lord," Bellatrix hurried to continue, in fear of being dismissed. "There is also a little something… an idea, my cousin and I, came up with in regards to the… Tournament." The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at her, wondering why she would bring up the subject of the Triwizard Tournament in a meeting that was about the Rebels.

"Continue," he said, feeling mildly curious.

"If I could say this to you privately, my Lord," the woman suggested. "I wouldn't want to suspect that some of the, ah,  _proud parents_  here would perhaps prepare their children in case they were selected to be champions, but one must be aware of the possible… risks." She shot a smug look at Lucius Malfoy when she said those words, knowing that the man, if he knew what kind of a tournament they were discussing, would do his damnest to not only make his son a contestant, but also the winner.

"Is the suggestion worth my time, Bellatrix?" the Dark Lord asked softly, with a slightly amused expression. "If it is not, you will be severely  _reprimanded_  for wasting my time."

"It is to ensure the… enjoyment during the event, my Lord," Bellatrix said, curtsying again. "I'd be  _most_  honoured for your time and attention, my Lord…most honoured indeed."

"Very well," Lord Voldemort said. "After the others are dismissed, you and your cousin are to remain."

"My Lord," Bellatrix said almost breathlessly, wishing for a way to be able to show her gratitude to the man in front of her. " _Thank you_ , my Lord."

*

Luna Lovegood was pretty used to missing people.

She missed her mother, who died years ago, and she missed her father who was at home. Right now, however, the person she was missing the most was, well, her only friend. Who was slightly odd but, then again, people considered _her_ to be odd, too. Perhaps that meant that they were destined to be friends? Luna wasn't sure but she liked to think so.

She did, however, try to never dwell on depressing matters such as missing people who weren't there and wishing she'd have a friend to talk with. It'd do her no good, she knew that for sure. Besides, being alone wasn't so bad.

At school, Luna was most commonly called 'Loony'. It wasn't pleasant, but she had long ago learned to not pay attention to the names people chose to call her by. Right now, however, it was hard to not pay attention to one Ginny Weasley who was not only calling her 'Loony', but also standing right in front of her.

In all honesty, Luna suspected that Weasley wasn't calling her 'Loony' to insult her, but because she had no idea what Luna's actual name was.

"How can I help you?" Luna asked, smiling faintly at the red-haired girl, who smiled back nervously.

"Uh, well, the thing is," Weasley stammered. "I have a question. Well, it's actually Ron – my brother, who's an idiot – who has a question but he's too, uhm, I'm not sure what exactly but whatever. I mean, look, the thing is, I just want to ask… you know Harry Potter?"

"Harry and I are friends," Luna replied. "He is a very nice boy."

"I don't know him well," Weasley said. "But my brother does. He was curious… I mean, he just wants to know how you became such good friends. I, we, saw you in Diagon Alley that time and, uh…"

"It's very easy to be friends with Harry," Luna told the red-haired girl. "He's a very good person. Would you like to sit down by the way?"

"Ah, thanks," Weasley said, blushing, and sat down on the chair next to her. "I'm Ginny, by the way."

"And I'm Luna," Luna said with an easy smile. "Not Loony. Not that I mind being called that. It doesn't really bother me."

"Not Lo— oh _Merlin_ , I'm _sorry_!" Ginny exclaimed. "Ron said that's your name and I  _wondered_  how come but I just…

"A lot of people call me that. But Harry doesn't. He never has." Luna closed her eyes and thought about Harry. What was he doing now? "He'd be a wonderful older brother, wouldn't you think?"

"I, er, I don't know," Ginny admitted. "I have seen him a few times and he sometimes – very rarely – visits Ron during the summer, but I don't remember really talking to him. He seems kind of… unapproachable."

"It's because he's different," Luna explained, as if it was a perfectly common feature in someone. In fact, Ginny felt as if Luna expected her to somehow _understand_ how and why Harry Potter was 'different'. From what she had seen, he had come across as a rather quiet, serious boy who didn't look hostile but not particularly friendly either.

"He studies in Durmstrang, doesn't he?" Ginny asked. "That elite school. So amazing – I heard Malfoy wanted to get in there but he couldn't. Not sure if that's true or just a rumour, though. I wonder what it is like, there. I bet they have the best of everything!"

"I think that Hogwarts is better," Luna replied, thinking of the place she was in and of the magic surrounding them. "I can't wait for Harry to come here again." Perhaps she should write to him – even if he wouldn't have the time to respond, at least he'd know that she hadn't forgotten about him. The Christmas Holiday was less than a month away… perhaps she could persuade her friend to drop by for a visit?

*

" _You agreed to her idea,_ " Nagini hissed after Bellatrix Lestrange and her cousin, Sirius Black, had apparated away. Tom sighed and turned to leave the hall and head towards his private quarters.

"It sounded interesting," Tom said. "Something worth watching. Far more entertaining than watching those children duel each other, that's for sure. I can't wait to see how the education of the new Durmstrang can be used on Rebels."

" _What if your dead-alive boy is the student who has to complete that task?_ " At these words, Tom paused, not sure of what to think. It would surely be most _fascinating_ to see that do-no-evil brat put in a situation such as that.

"Nagini," Tom murmured, before starting to walk again. "I am very tempted to somehow rig that Goblet of Fire that's going to be used for selecting the champions." Because the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see Potter being put into a situation that would force him do something he'd rather not do.

"I don't know why, but," the man continued, entering one of his rooms, "the mere thought of tormenting Potter makes me feel… delighted. But it's also very strange… I don't want to _torture_ him, not like I torture others… I just want to… torment him a little bit. Differently. It's not  _reasonable_."

" _You two-legged creatures tend to be unreasonable,_ " Nagini hissed, slithering to lie onto a pillow on the couch. " _Do what you want and stop being so boring._ "

"You're the one who made me interested in Potter initially," Tom accused. "You were the one who kept calling him  _'dead-alive boy'_!"

" _If you'd just do something about it, I could start calling him dead-boy instead. Or corpse. Oh yes, I'll call him Corpse from now on. It will keep me hopeful._ "

"Back to the subject at hand!" Tom exclaimed, and scowled. "Should I or should I not rig the thing?"

" _Depends_ ," Nagini replied. " _Do you want him to catch people's attention? As a champion, he definitely will. If someone else gets the boy before you do, how would that make you feel?_ " The snake's words made Tom breathless for a few silent moments, during which the scene of the previous night flashed into his mind.

"Why would Potter prefer to work for anyone else but me?" Tom asked, but somehow he didn't feel fully convinced of his words. He didn't feel particularly good, either. And his good mood seemed to be trickling away rapidly as well. "It's not like anyone can offer him more than I do. I could… make him my second in command. If he'd be worthy of being that, I mean."

" _If he disagrees with your ideals…_ "

"It's not like I haven't convinced people to agree with my way of thinking before."

" _And then you'd have to fear betrayal from him. You'd need to constantly keep an eye on him and—_ "

"Speaking of which," Tom suddenly said, sitting down on a comfortable chair. "I think it's time to retry what I did last night. With any luck, there will be enough potion left in the boy’s system still to get this done."

" _…Hatchlings?_ "

"What?  _No!_  I didn't—  _Merlin_ … get out!"

" _Sensitive_   _fellow_."

"And stop spying on my Death Eaters!"

*

"If his mother is sick or something," Björn reasoned, "Clemens might have gone to see her. So he'll probably be absent for a day or two." It was lunchtime already and none of them had heard a word from or about Clemens that would explain his sudden disappearance. Due to that it had been quite hard for any of them to focus on anything aside from thinking of what could have happened to their classmate.

"That actually makes sense," Filippa said. "Want some cheese or butter with those bread slices, Nella?"

"Ah, no thanks," Petronella replied. "They're good the way they are."

"Did you slice them once more?" Jakob asked, comparing the girl's bread with the other slices in the bread-basket. "Are you sure you don't want even a little bit of cheese —"

"Can we not talk about my eating habits?" Petronella demanded, frowning slightly. "What do we have next, by the way? Transfiguration?"

"Dark Arts," Truls replied. "If we keep going by the order of the book, we'll be starting to learn about shields."

"There aren't many shields that can stop a Dark curses," Nikolai said. "And many of them can't be stopped at all. You can only dodge."

"In theory, yeah, a magical shield isn't enough to stop a particularly Dark curse," Truls said, "but if someone flings a killing curse at you, for example, it can be stopped by simply levitating a solid object of any kind to take the damage for you. No curse is  _unstoppable_." Harry, uninterested in the conversation going on, glanced at Filippa, who was looking at Petronella with a worried expression.

 _'Are her eating habits really that bad?'_  Harry wondered. The girl was eating bread, and surely she had already eaten something else as well. He sighed and refocused on his plate. Worrying about Clemens had killed his appetite; maybe Petronella's lack of appetite was because of the same thing?

"Looks like I forgot my book," Truls said suddenly, standing up. "I'll go get it quickly. See you guys later."

"Hold on, I'll come with you," Harry said, standing up as well. He waved briefly to his classmates before walking by Truls's side out of the dining hall and the main school building, towards their apartment complex. Truls looked slightly pale and rather grim, which prompted Harry to ask if something was wrong.

"I just got a headache all of a sudden," Truls replied, sighing and shrugging his shoulders as if to shake off a burden resting on them. "I was alright earlier but… I don't know. Maybe it will pass quickly. Hopefully."

"Maybe you should go to the hospital wing," Harry suggested, frowning. "If it bothers you and makes it hard for you to concentrate…"

"If it continues, I will," Truls assured him. He then glanced around them, and when seeing no one nearby, continued in a much quieter tone: "I was earlier thinking about what you said yesterday. About writing columns for that newspaper you mentioned."

"Oh yes," Harry whispered, nodding. "The Quibbler."

"What kind of articles were you thinking about writing, exactly?" Truls asked. "You can't make them _too_ radical or there will be a world of trouble. Besides, for all you know, the owner of the paper might refuse to publish what you write."

"I'll use a different name," Harry replied, frowning. "And I can't be sure, exactly, but I think that Mr. Lovegood might surprise us." If he was anything like his daughter, at any case. "And regarding the topics of articles… I don't know yet. I mean, I'm not sure. I just can't think of a topic that would help people be… more tolerant."

"Tolerance," Truls sighed. "I think the world is doomed to repeat a circle of intolerance and attempts at racial obliteration. When everyone has the freedom of speech, speeches become worthless. Every idiot's opinions can be heard and for many it's easier to live with prejudice than to muster up the courage to let go of their fear of the unknown."

"They don't realize that they don't know," Harry muttered, frowning again. "It's… people get wrong information regarding a specific human group or sect or something. And if that wrong information is spread actively, then everyone is judged based on… a misunderstanding. Is it like that with the Rebels, too? It's especially bad if the media is what provides us with wrong and biased and sensationalized information."

"I don't know," Truls admitted, unlocking the door of his flat. "I'll just grab my book and then we can go back. Just a second. I won't make you wait for long, I promise."

"No need to hurry," Harry told him. "We still have time. Maybe we'll go back and see Clemens there waiting for us with the rest of them."

*

"That little son of a mudblood really _is_  planning something," Tom hissed as soon as he returned to his own body. Okay, fine, maybe speaking and writing about tolerance wasn't exactly illegal.  _However,_  not only did such topics make him think of one Albus Dumbledore but they were potentially… hazardous.

 _'What will I **do**  if people start developing morals!'_ Tom thought. "That would be terrible. I need to do something." Actually, he knew exactly what to do to solve this particular problem. But what would stop Potter from planning something _else_ to make this world resemble a Gryffindor’s daydream?

 _'I need to give him something to worry about,'_  Tom decided. _'Keep him occupied with something trivial to prevent him from doing anything foolish.'_ Maybe he should kill off the boy's father? That would leave Potter having to focus on not only his education, but also his duties as the new head of the family. Not to mention that he'd have to organize a funeral and deal with all that grief that was bound to appear in the picture. He wouldn't have _any_ free time to waste on being troublesome.

But no, who knew what would happen if the boy would somehow figure out that his father had been specifically targeted. Besides, in the long run, being an orphan might end up giving Potter far too much freedom to do reckless and stupid things. Although… Potter's father didn't seem to be particularly competent. Or bright, for that matter. He had accused Tom of being a  _molester_ , for Merlin's sake! Him! A molester!

It was unlikely that he'd ever be able to forget that incident.  _Ever._

"I could distract him with anything small till next year," Tom murmured. "And then I could rig the Goblet and make him too busy to even  _think_  about writing silly little articles. That foolish child." And then he'd kill the boy's father and make Bellatrix adopt him, if only to see how _that_ would turn out.

Unable to suppress his smile, Tom thought about the entertainment that would be provided by Potter if that was to ever happen. Would the boy protest? Would he struggle? Would he run away and give Tom an excuse to declare him an outlaw and start a big-scale game of hide and seek?

 _'Entertaining these ideas is okay, but I won't kill the boy's father – I decided that already,'_ Tom thought. _'Either way, I'm glad I went through with this plan. First visit and already I have something to prevent.'_ He had been prepared to put up with a few hours of boring discussion about… well, whatever boys of that age talked about. Tom didn't know or care.

"I am a genius," Tom murmured, mentally saluting himself.

" _Spare me,_ " Nagini hissed. " _All that smugness is ruining my appetite. What did you do to deserve such praise anyway? All of I've seen you do consists of you just sitting there._ "

"Someone is cranky," Tom replied. "I am simply pleased about my progress. Remember when I told you about that plan I had that would enable me to observe Potter better? It's working. It's a success!"

" _Based on the information and experience of years that I have gained during my time with you_ ," Nagini hissed, sounding genuinely irritated, " _what you're doing is called stalking, not observing._ "

"Call it whatever you want, I don't care. It's working and that's all I need. Why are you so angry anyway?"

" _Your single-minded idiocy is the reason. Just kill the boy and be done with it! Focus on what you have focused on so far!_ "

"But why?" Tom asked. "I want a bit of a change in my daily routine and Potter is providing it. He isn't a threat, not really. This magazine thing is irrelevant; I'm stopping him from doing it simply out of caution. So why are you so dead set on having me kill him? He isn't distracting me enough for it to affect my work, you know."

" _You must kill the spider to get rid of the cobweb,_ " Nagini told him. " _You stopped a harmless plan but his schemes will evolve and improve._ "

"It doesn't matter how brilliant a plan is. If I have the information of how everything is going to happen, I can stop any plan at any time," Tom pointed out. "And in all honesty, if it really came down to it – if the boy would really end up being a threat of some kind, I _will_  kill him. I don't want to and it'd be a pity, but I  _would_  do it."

" _That's what you keep saying,_ " Nagini hissed, before turning away. " _I wonder if you really mean it, though._ "

*

A few days later, on a Tuesday evening, Clemens returned. They saw him waiting for them in front of their apartment complex, after the last class of the day. He looked tired – exhausted, dead on his feet – and the smile he mustered up didn't reach his eyes at all. Harry very nearly frowned, wondering if the boy had been mistreated somehow during the days he spent missing.

"Clemens," Petronella gasped, and was the first to run towards the boy who looked so grim and serious – a vast difference from what he had been like before his absence. "It's cold here! Why are you outside? When did you come back?"

"Where have you  _been_?" Heidi exclaimed. "We were so worried! We sent you letters and you never answered and—"

"You're not injured, are you?" Filippa demanded to know. "And you're not in trouble either, right? You're not leaving?"

"You're not sick?" Jakob asked with a concerned, even a slightly panicky expression on his face. "You're all right?"

"Your family didn't go bankrupt or anything, did they?" Björn asked, looking torn between worried and horrified. "Man, I—"

"It was nothing important," Clemens cut them off. "I'm… it was just a family emergency, but nothing really worth mentioning."

 _'How can a family emergency be not worth mentioning?'_ Harry thought, frowning. _'Perhaps he just doesn't want to talk about it. Yeah, that must be it. It's easier to claim that nothing is wrong than to actually explain if it hurts. I wonder if he needs help, though.'_

"I'm actually incredibly sleepy," Clemens continued, "but I wanted to see you guys and tell you that I'm back and in good health. I did receive your letters but I didn't have the chance to respond. I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, no problem," Filippa said cheerfully. "As long as you're back with us and in good health. We tried to ask Professor Elis and even Professor Dietmar about where you were but they wouldn't tell us. Said to butt out and stop asking – well, not in  _those_  terms – and gave us more homework. You've got a lot of catching up to do!"

"You can borrow my notes, if you want," Petronella offered, and Clemens's expression softened a little bit and he nodded and thanked the girl.

"Let's go inside," Truls said suddenly. "It's getting increasingly cold here."

"If you guys don't mind, I'm going to go directly to my flat and sleep," Clemens said as they entered the apartment complex. "I haven't slept well for the past few days and my thoughts are all jumbled. Thank Merlin tomorrow is Wednesday and our lessons won't start till ten."

 _'I wonder if he'll get angry if I ask him later on privately of what's going on,'_ Harry thought after wishing a good night to the others and entering his ow n flat. _'Not that I'm particularly curious, I'm just a little bit worried. A family emergency… It's really none of my business, though. I don't want to make him feel as if I'm prying.'_ If he'd get the chance, he'd ask, but only if the opportunity came up naturally. He wouldn't go out of his way and he wouldn't corner Clemens and demand answers.

"Family emergency," Harry muttered, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket while moving to sit on the couch.  _'I wonder where da— James is. If he's all right. If he's injured. Is Uncle Sirius there with him, wherever he is?'_  Maybe he could write to Lupin. It had been so long and he really needed to know that there was a stable-minded adult in his life. He could ask if his godfather was all right, although he doubted that Lupin would know the answer to that.

 _'How strange,'_ Harry thought. _'Trusting a werewolf. Mum would disapprove, I know that for sure.'_ But then again, his mother had disapproved of many things, including treating werewolves rightfully at all, not just trusting them. Despite her flaws, though, Harry would readily give up anything just to spend once again some time with her.

He missed her. He missed her terribly.

*

"How are the plans going?"

Sirius looked up from the books, maps and parchments he had around him, to see Bellatrix standing in the doorway. She looked just as immaculate as she always did, and had it not been for her too-wide smile and for the fact that he simply  _knew_ her, Sirius could have mistaken her for a respectable pureblood lady.

"Pretty well," Sirius replied. "I was thinking about how to put that Rebel-task idea's theory into practice. We could use an improved scrying system to keep an eye on the contestants while they complete their task and somehow show it to the whole audience."

"That could work," Bellatrix agreed, stepping further into the room. "Are you going to use Rebels for  _all_  of your tasks, though?"

"Would it be too repetitive of me?" Sirius asked. "You wouldn't have any of your fabulous ideas to share, cousin?"

"You want me to do your work for you," Bellatrix laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh and it didn't fit her, in Sirius's opinion, even though he knew that Bellatrix wasn't a pleasant person either. "Fabulous ideas? Truly, flatterers look like friends, as wolves look like dogs."

"Ah, but I  _am_  a dog," Sirius said and grinned. "You can go and hunt for  _wolves_  elsewhere, if you fear them so."

"Don't be an idiot," Bellatrix sneered, and sat down. "How about we make those students battle a bunch of inferi? With Rebels they can be cunning and use as many tricks as they want, but fighting inferi will force them to bring out their real power."

"And where do you think I'll be able to find a bunch of inferi?" Sirius asked, bewildered. "I can't exactly mail-order thirty of those to be taken to Hogwarts!"

"Why not?"

"Because! Just because!"

"You never really grew up, did you," Bellatrix said, sounding wholly unimpressed. "How about Dementors, then? Although they tend to be boring, considering the limited selection of spells that actually _work_ against those things."

"I want something flashy and shocking," Sirius said. "Maybe we can really base it all on a Rebel-theme? Have all three tasks be about doing something regarding the rebels. We'd prevent it from being boring by being… _creative_."

"How many rebels can they catch and torture in twenty-four hours?" Bellatrix suggested. "Or perhaps, how creatively they can kill their Rebels and we'll rate their style!"

"No," Sirius frowned. "Honestly, _no_. There will be first-year kids watching this tournament, maybe even younger ones if families will attend with their broods. We have to keep it all within the limits of what's proper. If they kill, it has to be... clean."

"Fine," Bellatrix sneered. "You'll probably have them hunting unicorns and saving orphans from trees or something. I don't like saving orphans from trees and I refuse to watch it happen."

"You hate everything about orphans."

"Not quite. I like making orphans."

"That's beside the point," Sirius said, yawned and stood up. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"How many breakfasts have you had so far?" Bellatrix asked, not moving from the couch. "Also, while planning these tasks, you did remember that your godson might be one of the contestants, didn’t you?"

*

"I have told you, countless of times – Runes are a language," Professor Didi said with his heavily accented English. "You must  _use_  that language to not forget it. You must use it  _daily_  to feel it become a part of you. Ancient runes can contribute actively to this modern world."

Harry hid his yawn behind his hand, wishing that he had been able to sleep properly the night before. He had tried, but thoughts about Clemens, of what could have happened to him, kept him awake. And even after he managed to fall asleep, Harry dreamt of his mother and woke up crying.

 _'I thought that I had recovered from… losing her,'_ Harry thought. Could grief really resurface like that? Because last night he felt as if the saying about time healing wounds was nothing but a lie. However, he had felt just fine before that, for quite a while already.

"Runes can be used for protection, in wards and clothes and even skin. But they also can be used for…"

 _'Christmas break is drawing near,'_ Harry remembered suddenly. _'I wonder what I should do. I don't want to go back home. And somehow going to Hogwarts again doesn't seem like a good option. Maybe I will really stay here – it's not like that's forbidden or anything. I'll be able to take a portkey to Diagon Alley if I need anything.'_ Not to mention that it seemed like a lifetime ago that he last talked with Merope and Albus, and if he was alone for the holiday, he'd be able to contact them without worrying about being interrupted.

_'I wonder what Tom is doing. I haven't seen him in ages, either.'_

"Are you okay?" Truls whispered, leaning closer to Harry. "You look rather distracted."

"Just a bit tired, really," Harry replied just as quietly. "We still have herbology, transfiguration and charms, though, so I can't go to sleep or anything."

"Maybe eating something will restore your energy," Truls said. "We've got lunch next." Harry nodded, hoping so too. As tired as he was feeling _now_ , sitting through transfiguration would be pure agony. Thankfully, though, it wasn't a Saturday – he'd  _die_  if he'd have to go through six hours of dueling practice.

"I wonder if Clemens is really as okay as he wants us to believe," Harry whispered. Truls frowned.

"Why are you worrying about _him_?" the blond boy asked. "I'm sure he'll be just fine. Even if something is wrong, there must be a reason as to why he isn't telling us. Maybe he doesn't trust us or maybe he just prefers to keep it private. Or perhaps it's not his secret to tell. You needn't  _worry_  so much about others, Harry."

"I can't help it," Harry admitted.

"Would you worry this much if it was me acting like Clemens now?" Truls asked, and for some strange reason Harry found himself blushing. Why would he blush? There was no rational reason for this reaction, and yet he couldn't stop it.

"Yes," he said. "Of course I would, Truls. You're—"

"Oh, gag me now," Björn, who was sitting behind them, said. "Seriously, you two. Slap a rating on it and mind the kids."

"Mr. Lennart," Professor Did said, finally noticing the lack of concentration going on in his classroom. "If you have something more important to say than what I am right now telling you all about runes, then please, do us all a favour and share."

"I was simply wondering if runes can be crafted on air, sir," Björn lied quickly. "Air isn't exactly nothingness, after all. Or is solid material required?"

"I'm sure you were wondering that," Professors Didi replied with a suspicious look. "Stay after class, young man, if you want the answer. I will not ruin my lecture by adding unplanned parts just because of your curiosity."

 _'Feels like this class will never end,'_ Harry thought. _'I wonder what Luna is doing right now. The time difference isn't that big – she's probably in class, too. I miss her a lot… Maybe I should ask to spend some days with her during Christmas break. I wouldn't want to stay at Hogwarts since I have my flat, but spending a day or two with Luna would be nice.'_ He should buy her a gift first, though. He'd need to buy gifts for others too, of course.

Should he send a gift to Tom, too?

 _'He probably gets tons of gifts from everybody,'_ Harry thought.  _'Adding mine to the pile… He probably won't even notice it. Oh well, if I find something that would fit him, I'll buy it. But I won't specifically search for anything.'_

"Now," Professor Didi said. "Much to the delight of Mr. Lennart, I am going to end the lesson five minutes earlier than I should. For homework I want you all to write a list of fifteen pros and cons regarding runes, with brief explanations of why. Dismissed."

"He's never going to forgive or forget," Björn muttered sullenly as they left the classroom. "Not unless I bribe him. On a scale from one to ten, ten being the toughest, how easy or hard would it be to bribe Professor Didi?"

"Eleven," Nikolai replied immediately. "Your only chance is to ace every exam from now on if you want him to approve of you again."

"What did you say, anyway?" Filippa asked. "I didn't even hear you!"

"I was just commenting on a cavity-inducing scene I was forced to witness," Björn replied. "Just be happy you didn't see it. My eyeballs almost rioted and left my face."

"Oh, put a sock on it," Truls said, sounding unimpressed. "Harry and I were just talking."

"Pity I missed  _that_ ," Filippa muttered, and Heidi grinned. Truls sighed and shook his head, looking rather annoyed.

"Okay guys, let's hurry and get something to eat," Harry said, changing the subject to something less potentially dangerous. "I'm starving!"

*

That evening found Harry alone in his flat, doing his homework. He had decided to temporarily push aside all thoughts about his future and worries about everything in order to finish his assignments. This was, much to his annoyance, easier said than done.

 _'For a duel or a battle, runes should be prepared beforehand because writing runes during the battle would slow you down,'_ Harry thought.  _'I wonder how good Tom is at runes. He probably knows and has used a lot of them… I wonder if I should learn how to properly use runes, too.'_ Harry yawned and stood up, deciding to make some tea, when the doorbell suddenly rang. The boy turned away from the kitchen and rushed to open the door instead.

"Trul— er, Clemens!" Harry exclaimed. "What are you— Come in! Do you want tea? I was just about to make some. Come in and sit down."

"Hi again, Harry," Clemens grinned tiredly, pushing past the shorter boy into the apartment. "Sorry for intruding."

"You're not intruding," Harry said. "I was alone, trying to battle with my homework."

"Ah," Clemens replied, sitting down on the couch and sighing heavily. Harry's smile vanished as he took in the tired appearance of the other boy. Deciding to leave the tea for later, Harry sat down as well.

"Do you need to talk about anything?" Harry asked. "I mean, I can't really say I can give any advice, but if you need to vent…"

"Thanks," Clemens said. "But I doubt I even know _what_ to talk about. I just feel like being quiet. Everything is so exhausting. I… don't want to be alone, but I just… don't want to talk, either."

"It's okay," Harry assured him. "If you want, you can sleep here tonight. I'll just do my homework."

"I don't want to be a bother," Clemens said, but he looked rather relieved. Harry offered him a smile, wondering if the family emergency was similar to the one he had gone through when his mother died. The mere thought of that made Harry's heart ache and he wished desperately that his family would still be the way it had been before.

"It's not a bother," Harry said. "Do you want to sleep in my bed like Truls does sometimes or would you prefer the couch?"

"Truls does—? Um, the couch, please," Clemens stammered. "He won't be coming here tonight, though?"

"Truls got some pain-relieving potion from the hospital wing," Harry explained. "He has been suffering from a rather intense headache for a while. The potion knocked him out. I'll go grab some extra pillows and blankets so you can sleep anytime you feel like doing so."

"Need help?"

"No thank you. I'll be right away back there with you," Harry called, walking into the bedroom and to the closet, where the extra pillows and blankets were folded neatly.  _'I wonder what brought him here of all places. Not that I mind, but I didn't think he considers me that close to him…'_  Then again, Clemens didn't seem to be on particularly close terms with _anyone_. None of the girls – expect maybe Petronella – and while Björn and Truls both shared Clemens's passion for Quidditch, they never really seemed to spend time together voluntarily.

 _'I wonder if he'll ever tell me what's wrong,'_ Harry thought.  _'Ah, I might as well finish my homework tomorrow morning. If nothing else works, I'll copy from Filippa. My head hurts and I'm tired, too.'_

"Thank you," Clemens said again. Every time Harry looked at him, he couldn't help but feel worried about how exhausted and pale the other boy looked.

"Anytime," Harry replied. "I mean it. You can stay here for as long as you want. Sleep well."

That night Harry tried very hard to pretend that his mother was still alive and James was still someone he could call a father.

He tried, just as hard, to pretend that he didn't hear Clemens crying himself to sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

“One week to go before we’re  _free_!” Björn cheered happily as he and his classmates left the transfiguration classroom. “I can’t wait! Mother promised to take me to bet on racing horses and that’s a golden opportunity! In more ways than one,  _ha_!”

“I heard that YSL is releasing a Christmas line this year,” Heidi said, turning to Filippa. Petronella looked up, interested as well. “Will you and your aunt attend the fashion show?”

“I _wish_!” Filippa replied. “I mean, my aunt is  _obviously_  going but she hasn’t said anything about me being allowed to go with her.”

“What are your winter break plans?” Truls asked, turning towards Harry. Harry shrugged.

“I think I’ll stay here, in the flat,” he replied. “And once or twice take the portkey to England to meet some friends, maybe.” He’d also need to talk with Albus and Merope, write obligatory letters to Gildy, James, Sirius and Lupin, look for Christmas gifts and a few other things as well. Well, at least he had already sent a letter to Luna, and he was waiting eagerly for her response.

“I have to go home,” Truls said after Harry asked about his plans. “I don’t really want to, but there are some things that need to be done there and my presence is required. I’ll try to arrange for a swift return, however—”

“Don’t be silly,” Harry grinned. “You needn’t cut off your time with your family for my sake.”

“I don’t want you to stay here alone, though,” Truls insisted.

“He won’t,” Clemens said suddenly, joining their conversation. “I’m staying too.”

“You are?” Björn exclaimed just as they entered the apartment complex. “Why?” Clemens shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. Harry wondered if the boy’s reason for staying had anything to do with his tears last night. Clemens had left before Harry had woken up, leaving a thank you note behind. Clemens… just didn’t seem the sort to cry over anything. He was a bit like Nikolai – not as friendly and nice as the rest of Harry’s classmates. Like Nikolai, Clemens had a certain kind of  _coldness_  about him. It was easy to forget that the feelings of people so cold could be hurt, too.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Nikolai said, opening the door of his flat. Harry felt slightly intrigued when he realized that even though Nikolai had visited Harry’s flat quite a few times during the past few years, Harry has yet to visit the older boy’s flat even once.

“I’ll drop by later on,” Heidi said, and Nikolai nodded before pulling the door shut.

“I hate these stairs,” Jakob muttered then. “And I live on the ninth floor. _Merlin_.” As they passed the second floor, Harry glanced at Filippa who was, just as Harry knew she’d be, looking slightly gloomy at the sight of Lorenzo’s abandoned apartment. Not for the first time Harry wondered if the girl would ever truly get over their friend’s untimely death.

“It’d be wonderful if we could spend a holiday together,” Petronella said. “Maybe travel somewhere, all nine of us. Go explore the world and just… _be_  together.”

“Once we graduate,” Björn said immediately. “The summer right after it, we’ll go. All together. Tour the world or something!”

“You guys  _must_ come to Italy,” Filippa said, stopping in front of Harry’s door while Harry dug around in his pockets for his keys. “Even though they’re mostly muggle events, the carnivals in Italy are beyond description. You have to witness the annual  _Carnevale_  at least once in your lives!”

“I really envy your life sometimes,” Heidi admitted. “Fashion shows and carnivals, high profile parties and model friends.”

“She’ll show us all that one day,” Harry said, finally finding his keys and managing to open his flat’s door. “Anyone coming in?”

“I will probably sometime later on today,” Filippa said. “One of my cousins sent me a box of struffoli and I’ve been _dying_ to make you all taste some. So keep the tea ready and anyone is welcome to have some.”

“I’ll drop by my place quickly and then be right over,” Truls promised, shooting a slightly irritated glance at Filippa. Harry nodded with a smile, happy that he really had so many friends who’d enjoy spending time with him. It was a bit strange to think that a few years ago he had had no friends and the only way he could pass his time was by reading stories.

It felt like a lifetime since he last read a story – perhaps he could do that during the break. He could read all of his favourite stories. In fact, why wait till the break started? Why not now? The Secret Garden would be perfect. He’d make a cup of hot chocolate and read quietly that evening, everything else be damned.

After his friends would leave, of course.

Harry closed the front door after entering his flat, and after a quick shower and a change of clothes, he emerged from the bathroom only to find a familiar owl right outside his window. Much to his delight, it seemed that Luna had been quick to reply. Soon enough Harry was on the couch, opening the envelope, eager to read what his friend had written.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I was very happy to receive your letter and even happier to know that you’d wish to meet during the holiday. Of course the answer is yes. As you know, my winter break starts in less than a week, and I do believe that so does yours. I will be staying at Hogwarts, but I am very sure that we can meet in Hogsmeade at some point._
> 
> _I am well, and I hope that you’re well too. What comes to my father, I’m sorry to say that our Quibbler is currently put into use by the Dark Lord. For some reason my father was sent to Spain to keep an eye on what’s going on and report every two days. Father says that it’s a pity how the war has driven away the most peaceful creatures. Spain used to be full of dancing morinoleys but now he says there are hardly any left._
> 
> _I made a new friend! Well, I have known her for quite a while, but only recently do we seem to spend more time together. You do know Ginny Weasley, don’t you? I think you and her brother are friends. She’s a nice girl. Very brave, too._
> 
> _Ah, I hate to cut this letter short, Harry, but a herd of bluwywings is suddenly approaching, so I must seal this letter and send it before they see it. They like to eat parchment, you see. It’s quite a treat for them, especially if there’s blue ink on it.  
>  With sincere love,_
> 
> _Luna_

*

“Potter,” Tom said, “is staying at Durmstrang.”

“ _Well, he does study there,_ ” Nagini hissed, staring at an oblivious rat that was creeping a few feet away from her. “ _If you didn’t know even that—_ ”

“Of course I know that he studies there, you overgrown flobberworm,” Tom sneered. “What I  _meant_  is that he’ll be staying there during the winter break. Alone and defenceless.”

“ _Hmm, sounds like the perfect time for a murder. Make Corpse truly a corpse._ ”

“No. It sounds like I could go and… well, talk to him. About things. Important things.”

“ _Such as?_ ” Nagini asked, sounding unimpressed. “ _Dinner? That’s important. And if you didn’t realize it by now, I am trying to subtly tell you that I’d appreciate something else aside from mice and rabbits._ ”

“Fine,” Tom said, “it’s not that there’s anything specific I could talk to him about, but I still think that I should go. I feel like I just keep revolving around this same issue—”

“ _You do. And the issue is that boy. Forget about him and focus on something else. Something more important. Like feeding me._ ”

“—but I just can’t  _stop_  either. I’m not even exactly sure why, but there’s… something I can’t ignore about that child. My… instincts or… something of the kind.”

Nagini stretched her jaws, imitating a yawn.

“Maybe I ought to find a competent seer to look into the boy’s future,” Tom said, and sighed. “If I could just focus on my actual work and not be constantly distracted…”

“ _Go to the battlefield,_ ” Nagini suggested. “ _Kill a few dozen people. Get in touch with who you really are._ ”

 _‘Who I really am?’_ Tom thought, leaning back on his chair with a contemplative expression.  _‘What a strange thing to say – I have never been anyone else but me.’_ Sure, he lied to others almost at every chance he could simply to mock them silently about their lack of intelligence and awareness… but he had never lied to himself, or been in denial about anything.

He still hadn’t decided what to do about the Triwizard Tournament, and whether or not he should rig the Goblet to pick Potter. It was a good thing that the war fronts were in the steady and capable hands of competent generals, because as important as they were, Tom was far too distracted to focus on all the details.

Maybe he really ought to go to the battlefield and torture a few dozen rebels. He had a cause to see through, and he didn’t want anyone to think that he was losing interest in taking over the, well,  _world,_ and try to overtake him. The last thing he needed was a third party trying to confuse the clear enmity between his forces and the Rebels.

Tom had learned a long, long time ago that there was nothing quite as dangerous as determined, self-confident stupidity. He, in fact, hated stupidity, and had it not been for the fact that almost everyone was an idiot, Tom would have made stupidity a crime punished with death.

“ _You say you could kill him if you want to,_ ” Nagini hissed suddenly. “ _I doubt that._ ”

“Don’t be foolish,” Tom replied, sounding dismissive. Nagini’s words, however, echoed in his mind and he knew that if he didn’t prove his claims to himself, he could end up doubting himself. He wasn’t overly worried, though.

He knew exactly what to do.

*

“If there’s anything you need,” Truls said, for the hundredth time. “Anything at all, just write to me and I’ll come back.” Truls’s arms were wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, and the taller boy seemed reluctant to let go. Harry smiled fondly.

“I’ll be alright,” Harry assured him. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise to call you if I need anything.”

“You’ll miss your portkey if you don’t move,” Clemens said, sounding bored. The look Truls gave him was a bit more than simply displeased, but Clemens stared right back at him, seemingly unaffected. After a few moments Truls pulled away from Harry and sighed.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said, and turned to leave.

“I’ll write to you,” Harry called after him, and the boy couldn’t help but feel slightly lonely, especially after Truls disappeared with the portkey. Soon it was only Harry and Clemens, standing in front of the apartment complex.

“You two are very close,” Clemens said suddenly. “Very, very close. It’s obvious to everyone.”

“He’s my best friend,” Harry explained.

“Even most best friends aren’t that close. If they’re just friends, that is.”

“And things outside the norm are not a part of reality, I assume?”

“I didn’t say that,” Clemens said, and turned to go back in. “It’s cold here. Let’s go to my place and I’ll make us something warm to drink.”

“Alright,” Harry murmured, and followed his classmate inside. He knew – and didn’t like – what Clemens had implied. He and Truls, they were  _close_. Very close indeed. But they weren’t… they weren’t like  _that_. Harry didn’t think that he’d even have the time and energy to be involved with anyone, what with the hectic school schedule and his other obligations.

Not to mention that Harry needed to focus fully on Tom. He couldn’t afford being distracted by anyone else, be it a girl or a boy. That was why he, while sorry on Luna’s behalf, wasn’t overly sorry for the fact that he couldn’t use the Quibbler the way he had wanted. By deciding to focus on Tom, Harry wouldn’t need to speak to the public at all, right?

Harry and Clemens entered the boy’s flat, and Harry was surprised to see how…  _still_  it was. It seemed as if time itself stopped inside the small flat. There were thick, soft carpets on the floor, bookshelves hiding the walls, and weapons on nearly every flat surface.

“Sorry about the mess,” Clemens said, not sounding sorry at all. “I was cleaning up my collection earlier and it’s kind of… unfinished.”

“That’s alright,” Harry murmured, sitting down warily. “You collect weapons? I never knew that.”

“Not many know,” Clemens replied. “People think it’s… dangerous. As if I, just because I like collecting these, would one day snap and use them all. A bloody stupid way of thinking, but people tend to be like that. They’re so lacking on the inside that they want to think the worst of everyone else.”

 _‘That’s an unusual thing for him to say,’_ Harry thought _. ‘I wonder what in the world happened for him to… well, change. Should I ask him? Maybe he needs someone he could talk to. And since he has been voluntarily spending time with me, he most likely doesn’t dislike me…’_

“A sickle for your thoughts,” Clemens said, putting a cup of tea in front of Harry. “Is something bothering you?”

“Isn’t that what I should be asking?” Harry asked warily, looking at Clemens’s face. The older boy looked exhausted, even slightly desperate, and it was painfully clear that something was troubling him a lot. Harry sighed and stood up. “You’re going to sleep, now. Unless you want to talk about what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Clemens claimed, but it didn’t sound convincing. “What makes you say—, just drink your tea, alright?”

Harry narrowed his eyes and levelled Clemens with a serious look, before nodding slowly. He would stay till the boy went to sleep, and hopefully by then Clemens would have opened up a little bit. Harry didn’t wish misery for anyone, especially not one of his friends.

*

“Want to talk about the mission?” Sirius asked, pouring a glass of whisky for his friend. James accepted the drink with a grateful smile before sinking into the chair.

“Not really,” he replied. “I’m just glad it’s over. I have two days of rest before I have to go to Russia for a month of, well, they called it training but who knows what they will teach us there. Maybe a few spells. I don’t even care.”

“Have you,” Sirius started carefully, eyeing his friend with a wary expression. “Have you thought about Harry?”

“What about him?” James asked dully. His hands were rummaging through his pockets, and eventually he pulled out a box of cigarettes. Sirius didn’t know when James had even started smoking, and he wondered if it was stupid of him to feel a bit… sad.

“Aren’t you going to spend Christmas with him?” Sirius asked. “When did you last even see him?”

“He’s a Durmstrang student,” James explained, closing his eyes. “He can handle himself. Besides… I don’t think that he’d enjoy spending time with me anyway.”

“Where did you get that idea from?” Sirius demanded to know, frowning. “Honestly, James. Harry is still just thirteen you know. You can’t just let him stay at the Durmstrang dorms if you’re at home, doing nothing important! The kid needs his family! _You_ are his family. There’s only so much a godfather can do – there are some things only a father can do, can _be_.”

“Sirius,” James murmured, still keeping his eyes closed. “Don’t pester me about this.” Sirius huffed, drank a few mouthfuls of whisky before speaking again:

“You’re still grieving, and I understand that, but—“

“I’m not sad anymore,” James cut in tonelessly. “I just… don’t feel anything at all, Sirius. I feel like after battling with so many feelings for so long, I’m suddenly drained. I’m not sad, but I can’t quite remember how to be happy, either. It’s like something inside me is switched off now.”

“You need to see a mind healer,” Sirius stated. “Come on, James, old boy. Life goes on.”

“Indeed it does,” James murmured. “But I can’t be made to care. Give it a rest, Sirius. I’m actually feeling much better now than I was, say, a week ago. It’s much easier to carry on once you stop caring about your misery.”

“It’s not that you’ve stopped caring. You’re just resigned to it,” Sirius said sharply, before sighing and slumping against the cushions of his chair. “I shouldn’t have given you anything to drink before bringing up this issue.”

“If you’re so worried about Harry, why won’t  _you_  go see him?”

“Because I have  _work._  A lot of it! I can hardly believe that I have an evening of freedom that I could spend like this!”

“He’s going to grow up well,” James said. “Much better than me. He’s a smart kid, he is. Durmstrang is good for him. I’m glad we ended up picking that school, despite the claims of it being, well… a military school. Harry’s going to be alright. He’s an independent little fellow.”

“But he’s still just a _kid_ ,” Sirius insisted. “I’m giving you time until next summer. If you don’t get better by then, I’ll take you to see a healer.” James snorted, and repeated that he was, in fact, better than he had been in a long time.

Somehow, Sirius wasn’t quite convinced.

*

“This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” Clemens said, pulling the covers up to his chin. Harry, who was sitting next to him on the bed, gave him an amused look.

“Done what? Had a sleepover?”

“Yeah, that.” Clemens fell silent, and remained so for a few long minutes. Harry didn’t push him to talk – he knew that eventually the boy would end up telling him what was wrong. If Clemens had no intention to confide in him, he wouldn’t have asked Harry to stay the night at his flat.

“You know when I was called by the Professor, and left the school for a while?” Clemens started finally, hesitantly, his voice barely more than a whisper. Harry nodded, but then realized that due to the darkness it was likely that his friend couldn’t see him.

“Yes.”

“My dad died.” Clemens’s words held no particular emotions in them – they were simply a statement, as if his father’s death had nothing to do with him. Harry suspected, however, that rather than cold and unfeeling, Clemens was simply holding himself back.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry whispered. “You know my mother died last summer.”

“Yeah,” the older boy said. “It’s why I came to you. How is… how is your father taking it? That his wife is gone?”

“Not well, of course,” Harry told him, wondering what Clemens was aiming at. The curly-haired blond sighed.

“My mother is… she… already has a new lover that she introduced to us,” the boy revealed, and this time rage and helplessness were clear in his voice. “She had the nerve to bring him to father’s funeral. I… I hate her for it. I just… I knew that she didn’t love father but… the  _nerve_!”

“That’s horrible,” Harry murmured, and offered comfort in the only way he knew how – shifting closer to Clemens and reaching to hold his hand. “She didn’t talk with you before about it? Didn’t warn you?”

“No. She… I did ask her, but she simply ignored me. You know, Harry, some days I feel like I’m invisible. Like I don’t even exist. People don’t reply to me, don’t notice me, don’t… acknowledge me. I feel as if… if I looked into a mirror, I’d see no one. And I don’t know if they’re ignoring me on purpose or if they just honestly don’t notice.”

Harry wished so desperately to be able to find the right words to say, but he couldn’t. Every option that crossed his mind seemed so pretentious and insincere, and so he simply pressed his ear against Clemens’s chest, and listened.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Harry said quietly. “I know you’re  _here_ , Clemens.” The raven-haired boy then felt his classmate’s arms wrapping loosely around him, and he did not shrug them off.

“Sometimes I wish I was like Truls,” Clemens whispered. “But I can’t feel the way he does.” Harry frowned, unsure of what the other boy meant, though he didn’t bother to ask for a clarification. He was feeling increasingly sleepy, and although the position he was in wasn’t particularly comfortable, it wouldn’t keep him awake for much longer.

“How about we go somewhere away tomorrow? We can request a portkey from Professor Lyuben,” Harry suggested sleepily. “Change the scenery, the mood and have fun. If we go to Hogsmeade – it’s a nice little village near Hogwarts – I’ll introduce you to Luna. She’s a bit odd, but very nice and I’m sure that you’ll like her.”

“That’d be nice,” Clemens whispered into the darkness of the room. “Let’s do that.”

*

The sun was setting, casting its orange glow on the snow beneath his feet. He was approaching the graveyard of Godric’s Hollow with steady, heavy steps. He had no flowers with him and no candles either. He wasn’t even sure why he had come here – it hadn’t been his intention when he left his house.

Peter Pettigrew passed the gates of the cemetery and didn’t stop until he had reached the grave of Lily Potter. He stared at the tombstone for a few long moments before crouching down.

“Again, huh,” the wizard said quietly. “I’m sorry, Lily. I really am.” He had never really met  _this_  Lily, but that did not matter to him right now. Nothing was like how it could have been, and yet Peter knew that this was how everything should be. Almost. There were still a few things he needed to make happen before he could, finally, move on. Events that were bound to happen and paths that were bound to cross one another at some point. Everything was simply a matter of time.

He was tired, though. Tired of all this. After so many years of doing this, of  _being_  who and what he was, Peter wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, and perhaps never wake up again.

Not yet, though. He had a job to do.

 _‘James is slightly disappointing, though,’_ Peter thought.  _‘I know that how he’s coping is beneficial to me, but still… Then again, one could assume our roles have been reversed. Now I’m the strong and he’s the weak.’_ The thought of that did not make him happy – not that he had expected it to. His life now served a purpose that had no space for personalized measurements of worth. He was as he did, and without his mission he would be nothing.

Peter sighed, and stood up from his crouching position. Lily was gone, and her death had resulted in a necessary chain of events. It was unfortunate, though, that she died so young, once again. At least she got to see her son grow from an infant into a healthy preteen.

Not that Peter knew much about Harry. The boy wasn’t one of his… targets.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him stand up and turn sharply, fingers curling already around his wand while a pleasant smile was plastered on his face.  _‘I should have known,’_  Peter thought, once he saw Severus Snape standing a few feet away from him, eyeing him warily. The man’s expression was void of anything that could be called sorrow, but Peter knew that Snape had never been one for showing emotions aside from anger and contempt.

 _‘I’ll leave him to it, then,’_ Peter thought. He didn’t feel like talking right now. He didn’t feel like throwing off Snape’s composure by revealing how much he knew about the man’s past. He didn’t feel like saying ‘I’m sorry for your loss. She was your best friend, wasn’t she?’ even though he could have done so. He just… didn’t want to talk and let words out, because some words were too heavy, some meanings too big, and some secrets too dangerous.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Snape would recognize him anyway, at all. Not in this life. Which meant that Snape would most likely just ignore him and come up with his own explanations eventually – explanations that would be wrong. It didn’t matter, though. Not much mattered anymore.

Peter’s pleasant expression didn’t change as he walked past the taller man, unwilling to risk having anything happen by staying for too long in his presence. There was an unpleasant feeling in his stomach and everything felt so wrong, even though he knew that nothing was out of order. He knew it as well as he knew his reasons for doing all this.

Atonement.

*

In Hogwarts, one Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting by the windowsill, watching the beautiful scenery outside. Behind him, Sybill Trelawney was pushing herbs into her bottle of firewhisky, and she didn’t look up from her task even when she heard Gildy sigh heavily.

“This world is changing,” Gildy said. “It’s most noticeable when I think about the little ones. Like Harry.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I feel as if it was not long ago that he was barely eleven. And his mother, Lily Potter, she was a good woman. Back then we didn’t think of a big war approaching. We didn’t think about… life. We just lived it. I still try to do exactly that… I just want to have fun and be silly sometimes. All the time.” Gilderoy sighed again and turned towards Sybill with a worried expression. “Am I immature?”

“I don’t know,” Sybill said, “but being mature doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to be silly. Like, picking fights with adults won’t make you an adult. Pretending to be mature doesn’t mean that you are. Mature is… it’s a way of thinking. Maturity is all about what’s inside your head, how you think, how you see yourself. Basically… the more you understand how unimportant, insignificant, and ignorant you are, the more mature you are.”

“That sounds appropriately depressing and wise.” Gildy said, nodding. “Depression and grief is what’s  _in_  right now. Everyone who is someone is depressed. I suppose one must be, if they want to be part of the high crowd. Where did you quote all that from, anyway?”

“Hell if I know,” Sybill grunted, lifting the firewhisky bottle and shaking it. “Pretty sure he’s dead, though. I don’t quote people who’re alive, they tend to sue if they catch me stealing their words.”

“How terribly inconsiderate of them.”

“Selfish savages.”

“Anyway,” Gildy said. “Harry sent me a letter that arrived yesterday evening – he will be dropping by a few times during the Yule break. The poor dear – once again spending Christmas without a family. I’m just glad that he won’t be completely alone – he did say that a friend was going to stay at school for the break as well.”

“The boy’s father is alive, isn’t he?” Sybill asked, finally pouring some of the firewhisky into a glass. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I must confess I never knew James Potter well. He and I… do not swim in the same ocean, if you catch my drift,” Gilderoy said, and then continued almost hesitantly: “I do admit to being rather appalled and sorry on Harry’s behalf, though. It seems that dealing with family after the wife’s death is… well, Mr. Potter is out of his depth, let’s just say _that_.”

“I’ve met Potter, years ago,” Sybill declared after swallowing a mouthful of her whisky. “He’d be out of his depth in a puddle.”

“To make Harry feel better, I was thinking about giving him an extraordinary gift,” Gildy said. “Like a… unique pet. Nothing like an owl or a cat or a dog. Something like… a  _unicorn_.”

Sybill said nothing, but she did give him a look that told him ‘fat chance’ and ‘are you stupid’ in several different languages.

“Alright,” Gildy sighed. “How about a peacock instead? Or… an albino squirrel! Oh wait, no, I got it: a  _dragon_ —”

“How about we give him a Muggle instead?” Sybill suggested. “A pretty Muggle.”

“So many options!” Gildy exclaimed, looking much less depressed than he had minutes ago. “Pull on your cloak, girlfriend, we’re going gift hunting!”

*

“You know your way around this place?” Clemens asked, once the portkey left them standing in the middle of Hogsmeade’s High Street.

“As long as we stick together, everything should be alright,” Harry replied. “Besides, I sent a message to Luna that we’ll be at the Three Broomsticks – apparently that’s the best place to grab lunch around here – around two o’clock, so if she can, she’ll drop by.”

“Suppose we might as well buy Christmas gifts for the others,” Clemens said. “Although I have no idea about what to buy. I’m not really close with anyone. Not like how you’re with, say, Filippa or Truls.”

“Speaking of Truls,” Harry suddenly said. “Clemens… what do you know about life debts?” The other boy gave him a sharp, curious look, and Harry continued: “A few have mentioned that Truls cares about me a bit… too strongly. Or something. That his behaviour is strange. I’ve never noticed, however. Björn said, though, that maybe the life debt he still owes me is affecting him somehow…”

“Oh, right,” Clemens hissed. “He _does_ owe you a life debt. I had forgotten. He should pay it back soon, to be honest, because the longer they linger, the more complicated and rooted they get.”

“What do you mean by ‘rooted?’” Harry asked, suddenly feeling worried. He warily glanced around them, not willing for their conversation to be overheard. “Can you tell me what you know?”

“Of course,” Clemens replied immediately. “But what I know isn’t much – I’m not a specialist or anything, of course. It’s just that the longer a life debt lingers, the more entwined it gets with the… mind, I suppose, of the witch or wizard. The side effects of that are basically that it enhances the most prominent feeling he or she feels towards the person they owe their life to. For example, if Truls disliked you slightly before he got indebted to you, he’d most likely hate you by now.”

 _‘Well,’_ thought Harry, feeling uncomfortable.  _‘At least that’s not the case.’_

“I’ve been told that the intensifying process is faster the stronger a person’s magic is,” Clemens continued, not noticing Harry’s discomfort. “Truls has – his whole family, actually. It’s kind of their trademark. – ridiculously huge magical reserves. I think his lineage does some kind of training for it. It comes with drawbacks, though. I don’t know if you have noticed, but he has a tough time with gentle spells. It gets worse as time passes.”

“I do know that he tends to put too much force behind his spells,” Harry said, “but I didn’t think… I…”

“It’s not something he would talk about,” Clemens explained. “I just know because his family and mine associate with one another pretty regularly.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered, and fell silent. He wondered if he really knew Truls, after all. Well, he _did_ know the other boy. He knew what Truls liked, what he didn’t like. Knew what political views Truls had, what kind of morals and ideals. Knew what he was good at, knew what he was bad at… And _yet_ …

“If it becomes a problem, there are mind healers that specialize in treating cases like that,” Clemens said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry groaned, feeling selfish and stupid. Clemens had just lost his _father_ , and here Harry was whining to him about Truls, and getting comforted!

“He’s your friend, it’s understandable that you’ll worry,” Clemens said, shrugging. “Anyway, gifts. Got any ideas? What kinds of stores are in this village?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Harry admitted. “It’s rather small, though, so I’m pretty sure that we can just… walk around without getting lost. This place has a lovely atmosphere, I think. Really soothing.”

“We have a Muggle-free area like this in Münster,” Clemens said. “It’s really old, but still one of the most popular places in Germany. I bet if we went there now, it’d be incredibly crowded and noisy. This place – Hogsmeade, was it – is so quiet.”

“I like it like this,” Harry grinned. “It’s going to be dark well before we return, so we might as well do our shopping as soon as possible. We can go from store to store and buy gifts when we see and like something that would be suitable. Who knows, we might make some discoveries here.”

“Yeah,” Clemens said, a small smile finally appearing on his face. “If nothing else works we can just pitch in together and buy the whole group a joint trip for the summer. We’d go somewhere away.” The taller boy was looking at the scenery ahead of them with a slightly wistful expression as he continued: “Just for a few weeks. We’d go someplace and just…  _be_. We’d forget about the war and Lorenzo or your mum or my dad or how we’re going to be out there one day finishing what they started. We’d just enjoy a few sunny days having fun and…and just…”

“I get it,” Harry whispered when Clemens’s voice cracked. The German boy’s blue eyes were bright, and the smile he gave Harry was bitter, and yet somehow hopeful.

*

He knew why he was doing this, and he knew that there was no other way but forward. He needed to get this done to prove to himself that he could do it if he wanted to. The only thing that bothered him was how well he knew how the boy looked, from the exact shade of his complexion to the shape of his fingers. Tom took a deep breath and stepped back from the Rebel he had transfigured to look like Harry Potter, and watched the slightly twitching body for a few moments.

“Very good,” he murmured. It had been rather precise work – human transfiguration was tricky and complicated – but even if there  _was_  any internal damage, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t need this thing to stay alive for longer than a few hours. It looked like it should and, oh, even its voice was nearly identical to Harry’s.

“This,” the Rebel croaked, shuddering. “This is a  _child’s_  body, you _sick_ bastard.”

“Yes,” Tom said simply, crouching down. It was odd to see such a hateful expression on Harry’s face, but he assumed that it was to be expected. He was sure that if he ever was to do this to the real Harry, the boy’s expression would be quite like this one. “I wish to simply test something, and you are the lucky one to aid me in this… research.”

“Go to hell, you pervert,” the Rebel spat. Tom narrowed his eyes at the victim, before shaking his head. A pervert? Him? He wasn’t sure what he had done for such an insult to be used, but it wasn’t as if this Rebel’s opinion mattered.

“Hell isn’t my destination today, as I’m not the one who’s going to die soon,” the Dark Lord said gently, touching Harry’s face with his fingertips. The boy’s appearance reminded him greatly of his own, even though there was nothing in them that was exactly similar. It was rather odd, really.

“I did not want for our… association to end up like this,” Tom murmured, staring into the emerald green eyes and wishing that he could tell this to the real Harry himself. “But you’ve put me into a tough position and have left me with no options.”

“I knew you were a monster,” the Rebel hissed, its voice suddenly rough, “but I didn’t know you— to children—  _you_ —!”

“I’m not talking to you,” Tom said coldly, pressing his palm against the slender throat. “I’m not talking to  _you_. Why is it so hard to understand? Be quiet. This is between him and me.” The Rebel opened his mouth again to say something – without a doubt, yet another unimportant, meaningless insult – but Tom did not care to listen. He could feel the boy’s windpipe as he gripped the throat beneath his palm firmly, increasing pressure gradually.

The boy’s body started twitching and trashing, and to be able to hold him down properly, Tom cast a quick asphyxiation spell on him before moving to press his wrists against the cold stone floor. Tom wasn’t sure what he was feeling, exactly. Usually he enjoyed this, but the feeling he had now wasn’t quite  _that_. He didn’t know  _what_ it was, but… as long as it wasn’t a hindrance, he would ignore it for now.

Harry’s slender hands were clenching into fists, and Tom couldn’t quite resist the temptation to touch the boy’s fingers with his own. He wasn’t sure _why_ the boy’s fingers suddenly fascinated him, but… well, he felt no need to dwell on that. When he allowed the asphyxiation curse to fade, the Rebel gasped for breath – big gulps of air, as if he could store some inside his body for later use. Tom didn’t wait for his victim to regain his composure, and cast another curse on him instead.

Harry’s – right now the thought of this being anyone but Harry had slipped from Tom’s mind completely – back arched and he let out a scream that was so full of pain that Tom’s heart thundered in his chest and his small smile widened slightly. He stared down at the convulsing boy whose tear filled green eyes were staring at him before clenching shut. Harry was letting out choked sobs and suddenly,  _suddenly_ , it wasn’t so fun anymore. The smile on Tom’s face melted off and the more he watched Harry in pain, the less amusing the sight became.

He pointed the tip of his wand at the boy, feeling an alien sense of wrongness. He did it anyway – cast the Killing Curse – because he did not know what else he could do.

When the green light hit the boy, Tom gasped, as if it was his turn now to breathe properly.

How many had he tortured and killed before this? Many, he knew, and not once had he regretted it. At times he had even enjoyed it. Usually it was just a way for him to calm down, to vent by using torture – it had always made him feel better. But now… _now_ something was amiss, and he didn’t understand— He didn’t know what or why.

It was completely unnecessary, he knew, but he still transfigured the Rebel’s body to look like someone else – anyone who was not Harry – before he set it on fire.

*

“Maybe we should go with that summer trip plan, after all,” Harry said, unable to not laugh. “We can go buy cards and envelopes, suggest this to everyone so they won’t buy us gifts either. We’ll all just pitch in and have the best summer holiday ever.”

“Why is it so hard to find gifts for people?” Clemens asked, shaking his head. Snow had started to fall, and Harry could see a few snowflakes sticking to Clemens’s eyelashes. He chuckled and shook his head, feeling unexplainably happy. “Think we’d be allowed to just go somewhere on our own? We’ll be, what… fourteen next summer. You’ll still be thirteen.”

“My dad wouldn’t care,” Harry admitted. “I doubt he’d even notice.”

“Similar situation here,” Clemens sighed as they walked forward, from store to store. “I know that Petronella’s parents won’t let her go. They’re really rich and spoil her rotten, but they’ve got their issues, too. I don’t know much about the others, though.”

“Well,” Harry sighed, ready to suggest something else, when Clemens suddenly gripped his arm and grinned a bit too widely.

“Next summer!” the boy crowed. “The Quidditch World Cup! They’re already preparing for it and even though the tickets are not for sale yet, I’m sure I could get my hands on some for the final before we meet the others again. We can’t go travelling, but I don’t think that anyone will mind a one-day trip to an event like _that_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry breathed, his eyes wide. “You and I will split the pay. I’m sure that the others would love that. Björn will call it a betting heaven!” Clemens grinned at this – and for some reason, Harry wasn’t sure how to explain it, but the sight of that smile made him feel just a little bit weird and breathless.

“Alright, since we’ve decided on that,” Clemens said, “how about we go to… what did you call it again? The Three Broomsticks?”

“Yeah. I think we passed it twice already while wandering around.”

“Considering how tiny this place is, it’s likely that we’ll find it soon enough again. You said your friend will be dropping by at some point?”

“At two o’clock. It’s not even one yet, but we might as well go there and get a table for us. And maybe even order something. I’m not sure if she’ll be able to come – I have no idea if she will get permission. I doubt it, now that I actually think about it – but even if she doesn’t, you’ll be able to meet her later,” Harry explained, as if Clemens had been wanting to see his friend all along.

“Petronella would love this,” Clemens said when they, not ten minutes later, stepped into the Three Broomsticks Inn. It was warm inside, crowded and a bit smoky, but clean and welcoming. Harry couldn’t help but think of Tom before he forced himself to refocus on the present.

“Filippa would as well,” Harry grinned, before pulling his friend towards one of the few empty tables he could see. “Let’s order something. You’ll want to taste some Butterbeer, it’s delicious. When do you reckon the World Cup will actually start? I wonder how well England will do.”

“I don’t have much hope for Germany’s Quidditch team,” Clemens admitted as the two boys sat down. “Think Belgium will let Krum play?”

“That’d be _wicked_ ,” Harry said, thinking of Viktor. His humble awkwardness and stammers and the expression of shame that made waves of pity almost overwhelm Harry. “I just hope everything goes well for him. He’s a very… lovely person, really.”

“Don’t let Truls hear you say that,” Clemens snorted. “He’s bloody mental when it comes to you. He doesn’t like it at all when it seems like you’re focusing on someone else. He’s probably planning on how to kill me without making you upset as we speak.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry sighed, feeling uncomfortable. “He wouldn’t— Should I talk with him about the life debt thing? If this is really going to be a problem, I think it’s best to, just in case…”

“Don’t fret,” Clemens said, sounding unconcerned. “Let’s just focus on something happy right now and worry about everything later.”

Harry looked at his friend, watched as the German boy stood up to get them something to drink, feeling like he was swimming in a dream. So much didn’t make sense, he was still scared of so many things, but knowing that there were people around him – people he could trust and who trusted him in return – made him feel better.

It made everything seem a little less impossible, and a little more doable.

By the time Clemens returned with two mugs of Butterbeer, Harry smiled, and his heart smiled with him.


	21. Chapter 21

Luna hadn’t been able to come, which didn’t really surprise Harry. Christmas break or not, since she was staying at the school, their rules most likely prevented her from wandering outside the school premises on her own. She was, what, a second year student now? Too young for sure. As much as he had wanted to see her, it was easy to push aside the disappointment after the apology note arrived, carried by a brown owl with a red small scarf wrapped around its neck.

“Will you spend the Christmas day itself at the school?” Clemens asked, watching Harry scribble a small note in response to Luna. “I know that I’ll get a word from my mother to spend that day with the family.”

“It’s alright,” Harry replied, thinking of the train station, Albus, and Merope. “I was planning on something like that, too. Spending the day with my dad, I mean. Somehow.”

“I’ll be back the next day,” Clemens said, and then, suddenly, in a completely different and hushed tone: “Lorenzo died around this time, didn’t he? I never found out when exactly.”

 _‘I didn’t think you cared,’_  Harry thought before he gave the message he had been writing to the owl and then waving it away. “Filippa is still… she still mourns him. Much more than anyone else. She doesn’t speak of him often, but it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it.”

“Yeah,” Clemens sighed, his expression rather grim. “She’s good friends with Jakob too, and Grimm knows when he’s going to—”

“Don’t say it,” Harry interrupted, a troubled expression appearing on his face. “Really, Clemens. We don’t know if… We… just don’t say it. That’s… I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want to do so again for a while.” Clemens remained silent for a few moments, eyeing him with an expression that was not exactly sad, but very close to it.

“Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t come to Durmstrang at all,” Clemens admitted. “It’s the best school, yes, and when it comes to the curriculum and what it has to offer – I’m fine with all that. I’m _more_ than just fine with all that. But… their expectations, you know. They want us all to be amazing and great and  _the best_ … or die trying.”

“Or die trying,” Harry repeated, feeling the weight of those words on his shoulders and their bitterness in his mouth. “If I had attended Hogwarts… I wonder…if I could have just ignored the war and focused on something much less troubling.”

“Logically speaking, I doubt that any of us will ever have to take part in battles directly,” Clemens said. “Maybe we’ll lead, give orders, go on small team missions… but if any trained idiot from any other school can become an ordinary soldier, what’s the point of creating an institution like Durmstrang where they train us so hard and tell us that we’re special and elite?”

“And that is a whole another level of frightening,” Harry replied, managing a small smile this time. Clemens watched him silently for a few moments, before leaning forward suddenly and wrapping his fingers around Harry’s wrist.

“Hey,” he started, the expression on his face showing nothing but utmost seriousness. “No matter what, as long as we’ll stick together, everything will eventually be fine. We’ll survive. When one of us needs help, the other – the  _others_  – will help. If there’s something you cannot bear to do, I will do it for you, and if there is something I cannot save myself from, you must save me. All right?”

 _‘Oh,’_  Harry thought, feeling suddenly breathless.  _‘I want this.’_  And so he swallowed, nodded, and moved his hand to rest on Clemens’s own. “Yes,” Harry said. “Yeah, Clemens. We’ll manage this.”

“Harry?” a familiar voice said, and Harry pulled his hand out of Clemens’s grip, turning to see Ron approaching. Neville Longbottom was following Ron with a slightly nervous expression, carrying two mugs of Butterbeer. Neither waited for an invitation before sitting down, and Harry saw Clemens’s expression twitch as if barely holding back a grimace.

“Hello Ron,” Harry said, smiling fleetingly at Longbottom before turning to his classmate. “These are Ronald Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Guys, this is Clemens Marvin.”

“Pleasure,” Ron said, grinning. “Just call me Ron, though.”

“I’ll stick with Weasley,” Clemens replied coldly, and Harry wondered if the other boy was this unwelcoming to all strangers in the beginning. Ron’s expression had shifted from friendly into a rather disapproving one, and remembering what kind of a temper the redhead had, Harry decided that it was high time he and Clemens returned to look for gifts. He needed to buy something for Luna after all. And maybe Tom. If he found anything for—

 _‘It’s his birthday soon,’_  Harry thought, before telling himself that what he should have been thinking instead was  _‘am I seriously going to buy a gift to the Dark Lord? What on earth could I give him that he doesn’t have already?’_

“It was nice seeing you, Ron,” Harry said, standing up. “We’ll keep in touch, yeah? It was nice to see you as well, Longbottom.”

“See you some other time,” Ron replied, eyeing Clemens with a sullen expression. The German boy had stood up as well and was pulling on his hat, saying nothing in form of goodbye – only nodding towards Ron and Longbottom briefly before heading for the door with Harry right behind him. The weather outside had become, if possible, even colder than before. Or perhaps it was just Harry’s imagination. Maybe he had gotten used to the warmth of the Three Broomsticks, that stepping out of it made cold feel even colder.

“I wonder why they’re here,” Harry muttered. Clemens shrugged and glanced at him.

“They’re your friends?”

“Hardly,” Harry replied with a shrug. “I mean… I’ve known Ron for a while, and we’re on good terms, but…” After knowing what real friends were like, it was very hard to consider anything he shared with Ron or Draco a friendship.

“I get it,” Clemens said, nodding. Right then, a particularly cold gust of wind made Harry close his eyes and shudder. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Clemens staring at him with a smile on his face before the taller boy shook his head and continued walking.

If Harry’s heart skipped a beat right then, well, it was easy to ignore.

*

“You’ve been glowering ever since you returned from school,” an elderly woman said. “Is there a reason or are you doing that to maintain your reputation of inapproachability?”

“ _Farmor_ ,” Truls said, turning from the window to look at his grandmother. “I’m simply feeling restless. There’s something important I left at school, and I hope that no one will pick it up and take it away during my absence.”

“If it’s yours, you can simply take it back,” the woman drawled, gliding closer. “It would, after all, reflect badly on you if you were to allow people to take what’s yours without any payment. Some people allow themselves to overstep their boundaries.” Truls thought of Harry, and an unwanted feeling washed over him, settling somewhere under his heart.

“If only everything was so simple,” the boy said. “You remember the Marvin family?”

“The German bunch,” Truls’s grandmother sneered, her pale blue eyes flashing with contempt. “Weak. Not in magic, perhaps, but in spirit. They succumb to their desires far too easily, and temptations are irresistible to them. If who you detest is one of them… then you need not make a move. Wait, and you’ll see the inevitable working for your benefit.”

 _‘If only everything was so simple,’_  Truls thought again. It didn’t matter what would happen to Clemens if, by then, Harry would have… grown attached to him already. Then again, there was no reason to worry and no need to exaggerate, was there? It wasn’t as if Harry and Clemens had been particularly good friends before, and one short Christmas break wouldn’t be able to change that. Even if they got to know one another better, what Harry had with  _Truls_  would be beyond Clemens’s reach.

Truls was, after all, the only one Harry had trusted enough to tell about the odd train station and the even odder Albus Dumbledore. Truls didn’t know what exactly that all would eventually result in, but he knew that he’d stand by Harry’s side no matter what. Clemens, on the other hand… he wouldn’t be able to.

“Until when is my presence here required?” Truls asked, and his grandmother chuckled, touching the side of his head in what could have been mistaken for a tender sign of fondness. Truls knew better, though.

“The whole holiday, of course,” the old woman murmured. “If you leave earlier, people will talk. And you know how I hate that. We all have things much more important to do than travelling around silencing voices that should have known better than to speak.”

 _‘Appearances before everything, like always.’_ Truls nodded and then stepped away from the woman. “I understand. Excuse me. It’s getting late and I have to rise early tomorrow. Horseracing with Duke Holstein-Gottorp and the Senkilsson heir. Håkon, I think his name was.”

“Of course,” his grandmother replied. “Håkon Hedningen. I do hope that whatever… challenges you will accept in that company will end up with our name emerging as victorious.”

“Always.”

“You may leave now, if you so desire.”

Truls didn’t bother to muster up a smile before departing. He left the lounge and made his way down the long hallway, towards his own room. He could hear the sound of his mother laughing to what was most likely either a tasteless joke or a meaningless, insincere compliment delivered by his father. Truls wasn’t sure where his siblings were, but if any strange deaths were to be discovered the morning after, at least the culprits would be known.

A bit of blood was leaking from beneath the curtain that hid behind it an alcove. Truls, not pausing to investigate, stepped over the growing puddle and continued his way. He wanted to get out of this place. He wanted to be back at Durmstrang, with Harry.

Could he be faulted for thinking of Harry all the time if Harry was the only source of happiness in his life?

*

“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” Harry said, staring at the falling snow. “Already. Time flies by so fast.”

“Don’t press your face against the window,” Clemens said, not looking up from the message he had just received from his mother. “It’s too cold. Did you manage to send all of the gifts you bought, yet?”

“Pretty much,” Harry replied, thinking of the small wrapped package in his room that he should have sent to Tom already. “And you?”

“Aside from the Quidditch Cup tickets, yeah. I’ll try to get those tomorrow, actually. Or have them sent to me before the others come back.”

“I’m looking forward to it. The Quidditch Cup, I mean.”

“Me too,” Clemens said, and Harry, still not turning away from window, heard him approaching. Soon, the blond boy was leaning against the window as well, disregarding his own advice from moments earlier. “It’s beautiful outside.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, feeling suddenly conscious of every breath he took. “It’s beautiful. If I knew how to paint, I would. This is the kind of scenery I’d like to look at during the summer.” They stayed silent for a few long minutes before Clemens spoke up again.

“My portkey will leave at six in the morning.”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling oddly disappointed. He’d have a whole day free, and it was unlikely that his meeting with Albus and Merope would last for longer than an hour. “When will you be coming back?”

“The day after,” Clemens said, turning to look at him. It was odd, Harry thought, how he and Clemens had been almost strangers but a few weeks ago. “You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry assured him. “Of course. But, um… will  _you_?” Clemens shrugged, with a carefully neutral expression.

“Suppose when it comes down to it, I can always leave,” he said. “And once I get back, we can go to… England again, if you want. Anywhere. To celebrate and stuff. Do you like opera?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “I’ve never been to opera. My parents went once though, and I remember them being dressed up in fancy outfits. Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Clemens admitted. He then sighed, moving away from the window. “Want something to drink? Tea?”

“Tea’s fine.” Harry turned his back to the window, and silently watched the blond boy pulling out a kettle and selecting the tea type. It was strange, really, how easily Harry and Clemens had gotten along ever since Clemens had sought him out. It was hard to remember that they had been in rather indifferent – or downright cold – terms previously, after spending the past few days in complete harmony with Clemens.

 _‘Not quite like with Truls, though,’_  Harry thought, smiling slightly _. ‘They look a bit alike, and maybe even act a bit alike, but they’re very, very different.’_ Somehow, despite their similarities, in Harry’s eyes, Truls and Clemens were almost one another’s opposites.

“I wonder what the others are doing,” Harry said suddenly. “I hope everyone’s safe and alright. I… can’t wait for this war to be over.”

“Technically, the Dark Lord hasn’t declared a full war against the Rebels yet,” Clemens said. “So far, it’s all been subduing the opposition and some scattered battles. When the war starts, it will be a long road to better days.”

Harry nodded, not hiding the dread he was feeling. He knew that he’d have to soon make a solid plan of action and go forth with it. Tomorrow, maybe, after his trip to the train station.

He had no reason to wait any longer. Even if he could not act yet, he could plan.

*

_The Rebel on the floor was screaming itself hoarse, and Tom stood and watched, feeling content. This was the punishment his enemies deserved. They should know better than to cross him. Should know better than to cross him. Should know better than to think they could actually reach him, do something, or succeed in anything._

_They never learned, though. Always, always there would be new attempts, new protests, new challenges, and new fights, and the Dark Lord Voldemort would be required to make an example out of them. Regularly, again and again. That’s how it was supposed to be. That was the right thing to do._

_But suddenly, suddenly, it all went wrong._

_Suddenly, it wasn’t the Rebel, but Harry. The real Harry. He wasn’t supposed to do this to Harry, not yet. This wasn’t— He had done this just to assure himself that he could. That should the need come, he wouldn’t hesitate or back down._

_He undid the curse with a wave of his hand – a gesture he had done thousands of times before. A gesture that was now little more than a reflex. And it took him one breathless moment to realize that it wasn’t working. Harry – Potter, damn it all. Potter! – was going mad with pain and Tom couldn’t stop it. Time was running out fast, and who knew what kind of damage—_

_Finite wasn’t working._

_Nothing was working._

_And Tom knew that the only mercy he could show right now, the only act of kindness, the only option left was to kill the boy to save him from the pain. He didn’t let himself think about it, quickly lifting his wand and casting the curse._

_He hadn’t expected it to work, but of course, it did. This time. Of course it would work now, when he partly didn’t want it to._

_A fraction of a second after Tom cast the spell – a few fumbling heartbeats before the green light hit Harry – it seemed that the pain curse had vanished, and by that time, Tom realized that had he waited for a moment longer – had he hesitated – Harry wouldn’t be dead._

Tom woke up.

He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t stretch, didn’t yawn, didn’t so much as move his head. Had anyone been watching, they would not have been able to tell that he was no longer asleep. That wasn’t, however, what Tom was thinking about.

As awareness swept into his mind in swift strides, the only thing he could think about was the nightmare. Dream. It shouldn’t… there was no reason for it to be called a nightmare. It had been just about Harry. Potter. Harry Potter. It had just been about that brat dying.

With a groan, Tom pressed his palms against his closed eyelids. Why was his heart still beating so fast when there was no reason for it to do so? Was it really Harry’s fault? Just what had _happened_ , and _why_ , and _when_ did he become so…  _fond_  of the boy? It was, Tom knew, like an addiction that had snuck on him. He had seen it happen to others – men and women who believed that they were capable of controlling their addictions, believed foolishly that they could quit at any time, and when they tried… the bitter truth became evident.

His thoughts were running in circles inside his head, uncontrolled. He felt nearly disoriented, which alarmed him greatly – he had had his fair share of nightmares, but never had one affected him like—

“Fucking hell,” Tom hissed, a surge of rage making him sit up. He’d need to do _something_ about Potter. He didn’t understand the  _stupid_  reaction he had, but it was absolutely unacceptable. If only he’d be able to figure out what to  _do_  about it. Things had gone too far, if he was affected like that. He had… this had been… This was supposed to be a  _game_. It felt more like a trap now, though. Too much like a trap.

What should he do? What was the best way to deal with situations like this?

Tom was tempted to go and see Harry – but he didn’t know _why_. There was no reason to go and see the brat. What would _that_ solve, anyway? Meeting Harry had never resulted in any great epiphanies; on the contrary, the mere presence of the boy just created questions out of thin air. Even possessing his Swedish sidekick hadn’t given Tom any answers.

Would it still be for the better to visit the boy, really? He had, after all, told Nagini that he would…

 _‘Work first,’_  Tom decided.  _‘I’ll think about Potter later.’_

_*_

After Clemens left, Harry sat on his couch with the cup of tea in his hand, thinking of what he ought to say once he’d gone to the train station again. He felt as if it had been ages since he went there last… and it had really been a while, hadn’t it? Was it stupid of him to feel nervous?

Regardless – it wasn’t as if he could back out _now_. Who knew when he’d get his next opportunity to go there without risking someone finding out.

 _‘Then again,’_  Harry thought, setting down the cup of tea,  _‘Truls knows already.’_ Taking a deep breath, Harry moved to switch off the lights and then made himself comfortable on the couch. He closed his eyes and focused like he had done so many times before.

It was the shift of the air, the new wind that whispered over him coldly, that made Harry aware of the success of his trip once again. The sensation of the dampness of the air sweeping through the fabric of his clothes made him shiver, and when he heard the sound of a train leaving the station, he finally opened his eyes. The air was, if possible, even worse than before.

He sat up and wrapped his arms around himself, cursing himself for not having brought a jacket. Surely he could have managed _that_?

“It has been a while,” said a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see Merope sitting on a bench nearby. Oddly enough the frightening and vaguely disgusting sight of her made Harry feel better.

“You said not to come here too often,” Harry reminded her.

“Indeed I did,” she replied. “So what brought you here now?”

“I,” Harry started, swallowing nervously. “I just wanted to tell you and Albus that I’ve made my choice. About what I’ll do, I mean. My… goal.”

“Going to save the whole world, then?” Merope said, smiling wryly. Harry shook his head.

“I’ve decided to focus solely on Tom,” he said. “I just don’t know what to do about him.”

“The old man will be disappointed,” Merope sneered, managing to sound approving despite her tone. “What you need to do is find his horcurxes and destroy them. He could have changed their number and location by now, which means that my information regarding the amount of them is potentially inaccurate.”

“How do I find out how many he has?” Harry asked, sounding worried. “And where  _is_  Albus?”

“I don’t know where Albus is, and I do not particularly care,” Merope replied. “What I will tell you, though, is that there is a way to find out the exact number of the piece’s of Tom’s soul… and summon them to be destroyed.”

Harry narrowed his eyes warily. “Oh?”

“You’re too young for that now, though,” Merope continued, eyeing him as well as she could with her unfocused eyes. “Too young and too weak and too inexperienced. And worst of all… too bound to the world of the living to do what you must.”

“What’s the point in mentioning the possibility if I can’t do it anyway?” Harry demanded to know.

“You’re too young now,” Merope murmured once again. “But you won’t be so for long. Go back, boy. Go back to your world and train. Learn every spell that comes your way. Study the people, study their minds… and most importantly: study their souls. And when you grow older… I will show you how to make my son mortal once again.”

“Is that all I can do?” Harry said tiredly. “Wait?”

“Train,” Merope corrected. “You are still so young and foolish and reckless. Your peers might consider you mature and wise, but you are still nothing but a child.”

“Then what have I been doing up until now? Everything I have been so worried about… I just… I don’t…” Harry clenched his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands. He felt suddenly so _disoriented_. So out of touch with everything – including who he was. 

He supposedly had a goal now, but it didn’t really help if he wouldn’t be able to do a thing in order to reach it quite yet, now would it?

“The best thing you can do right now,” Merope told him quietly, for once not sounding harsh or mocking, “is to train and become stronger. My son is strong, Potter. I thought you had realized that already. He is strong. Stronger than you realize, stronger than you can imagine right now. Making him mortal by destroying his horcruxes isn’t going to amount to anything unless you’re strong enough to actually defeat him in a battle.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Harry protested, horrified by the thought.

“I never said you should,” Merope drawled. “But you are a fool if you think that you – or anyone at all – can gain his respect without defeating him once. If you want him to listen to you and  _see_  you, you must  _make_  him do so by proving to be better than him at something he values.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Which is why I’m telling you, Potter… _learn_. Train.” Merope looked at him once again before a slow smile twisted her face into a gleeful expression. “Find your own branch of magic, boy. Tom found and mastered the Dark Arts. There must be something out there waiting for you. You simply have to  _find it_.”

 _‘How?’_ Harry thought, allowing himself to fade away from the train station and slide back into reality.  _‘How do I even know from where to start?’_ Was it stupid of him to fear every step awaiting him in the future? It was so easy to be determined and brave for a moment, but then…  _then_ …

Harry didn’t move from the couch for a while. He didn’t even bother to go and switch on the lights, opting to simply be still in the darkness and try his damnest to not cry like a lost little child which he was  _not_ , thank you very much. He wasn’t, he  _wasn’t_ —

A sob made his whole body shudder. He couldn’t help but regret his visit to the train station now. All it had done was upset him, and suddenly, he was missing his mum again, even though he probably shouldn’t, and—

*

 “You shouldn’t have told him.”

Merope snorted and turned to look at the old wizard who had finally revealed himself from the shadows. “You could have stopped me,” she said. “You chose not to.”

“Had I stopped you then, you would have simply found another opportunity to tell him,” Albus said. “You would doom the world to make your son happy?”

“Don’t bother with that song and dance,” Merope said sharply. “By taking Tom out of the picture, Potter will ensure that an ending will happen. Eventually.”

“At what cost?”

“The price will be hefty no matter which goal he would end up aiming for.”

“And yet, you urged him to save your son and risk the world rather than save the world and risk your son,” Albus said, walking closer. “What are the chances of—”

“Tom can feel it, you know,” Merope cut in, feeling smug. “There’s a connection between the two of them. Tom doesn’t understand it, but he _knows_. Subconsciously, vaguely, but very certainly – he knows that there’s _something_ about Harry Potter that is important to him.”

“You sent Harry to train, knowing that no matter how much he learns… it is hardly going to matter once he sets out to find the horcruxes,” Albus said then. “You know where he has to go in order to see where the pieces of your son’s soul are.”

“Like I told him already,” Merope said, “restoring my son’s soul and making him mortal again is not the ultimate goal, but simply a step to ensure the success of what happens after. No matter what, he would need to find the horcruxes—”

“The way you told him about is the only way to restore your son’s soul without killing him,” Albus said, sounding unsettlingly nonchalant. “There could have been other ways. Ways to locate and destroy the horcruxes instead of uniting them into a complete—”

“I know,” Merope interrupted. “I know. But it needs to be done that way. There’s a web that needs to be untangled, and only Tom can untangle it without triggering any of his horribly clever traps.”

“You are toying with Harry’s life,” Albus said softly. Merope smiled bitterly, turning away from him.

“So are you,” she said. “To win this game.”

*

Apparently, he had fallen asleep.

To be more precise: apparently, he had cried himself to sleep. It didn’t really change anything. He wondered, though, if he would ever be able to think about his mother without feeling hurt and lonely and lost. 

“If you’re done staring at the ceiling…”

“Merlin!” Harry shrieked, startled and nearly falling off the couch while sitting up.

“Calm down,” the Dark Lord Voldemort said coolly from the couch nearby. “And be quiet. I’m thinking.”

Harry closed his eyes, shook his head, frowned, and then opened his eyes in order to stare at the man in his apartment with what hopefully was a disapproving – rather than just confused – look.

“You’re here,” Harry said. “ _Why_  are you here if you want to  _think_?”

“Because it involves you,” Tom replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Now shush.”

 _‘I’m probably still dreaming,’_  Harry decided, standing up from the couch and staggering towards the bathroom to wash his face. What was— Was it a coincidence? Why was Tom— Did the man somehow figure out what Harry was planning on doing? That was impossible though, wasn’t it?

Harry didn’t speak to Tom even after he stepped out of the bathroom again. Instead, he went to make himself a cup of tea and then sit silently on the couch. If the Dark Lord had something to say, he’d spit it out eventually.

 _‘I should probably be more shocked or awed by his presence or something,’_ Harry thought, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon of his tea _. ‘But I guess I’m just too used to him. Besides, if I want to actually be his equal in some way, I need to get over any kind of… worshiping. I hope he doesn’t see how nervous I am though. What is he doing here? Just… how did he even get in? Okay, I probably don’t want to know…’_

“Why did you decide to spend the holiday alone?” Tom asked suddenly.

“Who would I spend it with?” Harry said, not looking up from his tea. “My dad’s still busy mourning for my mother, and it’s just much easier to stay here than to—”

“Alright,” Tom interrupted. “And everyone else is with their families, I take it?”

“Well, Clemens Marvin will be coming back here tomorrow,” Harry said. “If you know the Marvin family.”

“Hmh. Vaguely.”

_‘Is he pouting? No… I don’t think so. He doesn’t have a reason to pout, does he?’_

“What brought you here?” Harry finally asked again. “And are you planning on staying for lunch or dinner? What time is it anyway?”

“It’s half past three or so,” Tom replied. “And I told you… I’m here to  _think_.”

“Don’t hurt yourself doing that,” Harry muttered, turning away.

“What was that?” Tom asked sharply, narrowing his eyes and glaring at the boy. “Oh yes. I remember how you were in the beginning. A cheeky little thing, making enemies out of people far stronger than you could ever be.”

That actually stung, but Harry didn’t grimace or let it show. He would just… need to work on proving Tom wrong, right? Somehow.

“You’re in a bad mood,” was all he said instead.  _‘I won’t get into any fights with you. Not now. Not yet.’_  It wasn’t as if he was in the best of moods at the moment either. In fact, he was not only exhausted and wary and even slightly hurt, but he was also feeling nauseous.

 _‘My head hurts, too,’_  Harry thought, clenching his eyes shut and putting down his cup of tea, right next to the other cup he had left there on the table hours ago _. ‘I hope I’m not getting sick or anything. Or maybe… could this be some kind of a side effect from the train station? No… I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never before left that place feeling like this. And it’s been hours since I left, anyway. Why would it make me feel sick now rather than immediately after returning?’’_

“What do you know about life debts?” Harry asked suddenly. Had he asked this question before? Had he actually received an answer? He wasn’t sure. If he ever had, then he couldn’t remember.

“What a strange question,” Tom replied. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Someone has owed me a life debt for slightly over two years,” Harry said, still keeping his eyes closed. “And I fear that it’s somehow affecting him—”

“Owing someone a life debt for so long is _definitely_ going affect the poor bastard,” Tom cut in, sounding slightly gleeful. “Who is it?”

“Just a classmate of mine,” Harry replied quietly. “Could you please tell me what you know about life debts?”

“What for?” Tom sneered. “Because I’m such a nice, charitable person?” At this, Harry opened his eyes and glared at the older man.

“Are you going to be like that all day?” Harry demanded to know, his ire making him forget for a moment who exactly he was speaking to. Or rather, it made him care less. “Because if you’re going to act like a selfish brat, I might as well go to sleep.”

“Watch your words, Potter. I have killed people for le—” Tom didn’t finish whatever he was saying, falling abruptly silent and looking even less pleased. Harry shook his head.

“I don’t even want to know what’s going on in that head of yours,” the boy said. “I’m tired though, and I need to rest. And then I should start working on homework and practicing other stuff. There’s so much to  _do_ —”

“Potter,” Tom interrupted, finally deciding on which issue to ask about first. “How can you talk with the dead?”

*

Soon.

A year, maybe.

To Peter, a year was a short time. That hadn’t always been the case, but the longer one lived, the faster time seemed to go for them. At least, that’s what he thought.

James Potter was currently at home, most likely either drinking himself into an early grave or pretending to be trying to get better. It didn’t matter though. It didn’t matter what he was doing or how badly he was coping because he could do nothing to stop Peter’s plans.

How odd it was to atone through methods that would bring only misery to everyone involved.

Peter took a deep breath and turned away from the Potter Manor. He didn’t need to go there yet. Soon, he’d have to, but now wasn’t the time.

 _‘One year,’_  he thought.  _‘One year, during which I’ll have to execute my plan carefully. It won’t fail. It mustn’t fail. I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry, Lily. I’m sorry, James.’_  He wasn’t sorry enough to stop though. Not that he could.

With a sigh, Peter apparated away from Godric’s Hollow only to appear at the outskirts of Hogsmeade. That village had always been an important place to him. So bittersweet, it hurt his heart and yet precious enough to heal it time and time again. If only he could be the way he used to be – all those years ago. All those dimensions ago.

One year.

In a year, where would Harry Potter be? It was strange, really, how everything seemed to revolve around the boy. How no matter how different the worlds were, Harry Potter was always  _special_.

“Excuse me,” someone said, and Peter turned to see a young woman with bright blue eyes and a wide smile offering him a card of some kind. “We’re havin’ a sale down yonder for the whole week, if yer interested.”

 

“What do you sell?” Peter asked, accepting the card, now recognizing it to be an advertisement of some kind. “Potions?”

“Yeah, potions,” the young woman said, grinning charmingly. “Nothing too serious, mind. Just light stuff. Gifts for kids if ye got any!”

“Any cheering potions?” Peter wanted to know. “Or any for some ghostly pranks?”

“We’ve got illusions but those aren’t potions,” the woman replied. “Yer welcome to see, I guarantee yer gonna find what yer looking for!”

“Thank you,” Peter said, nodding and pushing the card into his pocket. “I think I will drop by sometime today. How long will the sale last, you said?”

“A week,” the woman said. “Hope to see ye there. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Peter replied and turned away thinking of the possibilities. Was this a coincidence? It wasn’t as if he’d need to do anything – not yet, really – but if he used this to his advantage…

 _‘It needs to be done after all,’_ the man thought, walking towards the closest pub.  _‘And as soon as I’m done with this, I’ll move to the next one. It’s been… good, though. And easy.’_

One year.

He’d need to wait for one year more.

Just one.

*

It was terribly predictable, although definitely genuine, how Potter dropped the cup he was holding due to shock. The cup broke to pieces on the floor, and since Tom didn’t want to hear the boy whining, he went ahead and fixed the cup with a nice, polite  _reparo_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, his voice an octave higher than it should have been. Tom wasn’t impressed. He was, though, slightly relieved to know that Harry truly sucked at lying.

“It was only a matter of time before I found out, really,” the Dark Lord said, feigning nonchalance. “Honestly, just think about all the conversations we’ve had in the past – how could you _not_ have realized that I knew already? Do you think me an idiot?”

“I—”

“Do not disrespect me by lying,  _Harry_.”

Harry took a deep breath, swallowed and resisted the temptation to change the subject. Instead, he moved to sit down on the couch again while contemplating what to say, exactly.

“How can you talk with the dead?” Tom asked again, his voice still not betraying any of his emotions or actual thoughts. “Where did you learn that skill from?”

“I didn’t _learn_ it from anywhere,” Harry finally admitted hesitantly, feeling nervous and wary, but also, oddly enough, rather reckless. Maybe revealing this to Tom would  _change_  something.

 _‘I say revealing, as if I hadn’t already,’_  Harry thought before continuing: “I just dream sometimes. It’s been happening for a few years, but not very often. It’s pretty rare, really. And I don’t really get to know anything useful… I’m not even sure if it’s real or—”

“You mentioned Merope once,” Tom interrupted. “I want you to elaborate.”

“She’s there,” Harry admitted, feeling suddenly sweaty and pretty much resigned to his fate. “Not  _always_. Not in the beginning. But sometimes she’s there and… she… tells me things.”

“What kind of things?”

 _‘Stop asking me,’_  Harry thought, forcing himself to not panic. “Usually it’s me just telling her stuff. Like… about school. And other things I get worried about. She listens and gives me advice.”

“I see,” Tom drawled, his red eyes still fixed on Harry. “Well then. I forbid you from doing that again.”

“Excuse me?” Harry blurted, his eyes widening with surprise. “You _what_?”

“You do not, perhaps, know what kind of a person this Merope is,” Tom said, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “It could be dangerous, and I forbid you from contacting her again.”

“Maybe I’m tired, but that doesn’t make sense,” Harry muttered, shaking his head and feeling slightly less alarmed. “Is  _this_  what you came here for?”

 _‘Not really,’_  Tom thought.  _‘I’m not even sure what I came here for.’_  “I was bored. And I needed to think. And yes, actually, this is a rather important matter so of course I wanted to talk about it. Don’t think I won’t bring it up again at some point.”

“You’re the  _Dark Lord_ ,” Harry said, sounding rather unimpressed. Was the boy getting too used to Tom’s presence? The older wizard wasn’t sure if he disliked that thought nearly as much as he perhaps should have. “I’m sure you have something far more important and entertaining to do than to sit here. Isn’t there a war going on out there somewhere?”

“No,” Tom replied. “Absolutely not.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“You do realize that most people cower and bow before me? And those who don’t, end up dead, I’ll have you know.” Harry stared at Tom for a few silent moments with a rather peculiar expression. The Dark Lord did not think that anyone has ever looked at him with such a strange mix of fondness and disapproval before.

“I am not amused,” Harry said. “And you know what, I give up on this.”

“Give up on what?” Tom demanded to know, feeling slightly alarmed. “You’re  _thirteen_. You’re too young to give up on  _anything_.”

“You’re the Dark Lord,” Harry said, standing up and wandering towards his bedroom and leaving the door ajar behind him. “But I’ll just forget about that. If you insist on behaving like—”

“I can’t hear you,” Tom called after the boy. “Get back here and explain yourself.”

“I said,” Harry huffed, emerging from the bedroom a few moments later, carrying a small box. “I said that if you’re going to keep acting like that, I’m not going to treat you like you’re some almighty Dark Lord even though I know that you are. Kind of.”

“Not just  _kind of_ ,” Tom said sullenly. “I  _am_. And what’s that?”

“It’s called a gift,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes. “Merry Christmas, since we’re spending it together, apparently.”

Tom stared at him for a few moments with an unreadable expression before the gift flew from Harry’s grip right into the man’s hands.

“Well then,” Tom said, shoving the small box into one of his pockets. “You’re correct. We’re spending it together. Get dressed – we’re eating out.”

“Wha—”

“It’s not optional.”

*

Sirius shrugged off his cloak and kicked off his shoes as soon as he arrived home. He was exhausted, and not just because of having to spend hours talking with James about the same old grief plaguing the man.

 _‘When did it become like this,’_ Sirius wondered tiredly.  _‘That I **have to**  spend time with him, rather than  **get to**  spend time with him?’_ Well, at least his work was going well, even if his personal life wasn’t. Planning next year’s tournament had proven to be something quite entertaining.

 _‘Speaking of entertainment,’_ Sirius thought _, ‘I wonder how the wolf is doing.’_

The wolf was, apparently, doing rather well. It was reading a book – yet again – and looking like it enjoyed its life. Somehow, that irritated Sirius a little bit.

“What a simple life you’re leading,” he said, nearly glaring when the wolf looked up from the book. “You don’t have to worry about anything, do you?”

“Did the stores run out of your shampoo again?” Lupin asked in a maddeningly, frustratingly polite manner that made Sirius hate him just a little bit more.

“No,” the Death Eater said, trying to not sound insulted. “You don’t have to worry about politics or economy or anything at all. You don’t have to worry about  _relationships_ —”

“Because I don’t have any.”

“Because you don’t have any, yes, but that’s not the point. What am I going to tell Harry once he gets back from school only to see that his father isn’t even  _trying_  to get better?”

“Just don’t leave him alone,” Lupin said, sounding far too gentle for a monster. “That child deserves better.”

“Well yes,” Sirius said and then eyed the wolf suspiciously. “How’d you know that, anyway?”

“I have had the pleasure to speak with him a few times, if you remember,” Lupin revealed, finally closing his book and putting it down. “He is a remarkable child.”

“Lily was so proud of him,” Sirius agreed grimly. “Which is why it makes me so angry to see James failing him now. I just… I’ve seen what happens to smart, bright kids who’re angry at the world. And what if that’s how Harry will end up? He has— I’ve seen it happen. My bro— I’ve  _seen it happen_ , okay?”

“I don’t doubt you,” Lupin said, and he gave Sirius a look that was both pitying and understanding. Sirius felt partly angry at him and partly… something else. Something that almost made him think that maybe there was hope for werewolves. That maybe they—

“I’m sorry you’re not human,” Sirius said sincerely. Lupin’s hopeful, slightly friendly expression faltered, and he swallowed before looking down and reaching for his book again.

“Why?” Lupin asked suddenly. “What traits are so admirable in humans and non-existent in all the other races? Do you think that you, as a human, are more genuine and true and  _good_  than every other race? On what  _basis_?”

“It’s a matter of genetics,” Sirius said. “And magic. There are weaknesses in you that do not exist in me—”

“I could say the same.”

“If you are equal to humans, or maybe even better… then why has your race fallen into the state it’s in right now? Think about that.”

“You could become a good man, Lord Black,” Lupin said. “If you could simply see more than what’s in front of you, understand more than you see, and hear more than what you’re told.”


	22. Chapter 22

“When you said ‘eat out’,” Harry yelled over the wind, clutching a rapidly cooling cup of noodles while squinting through the snowstorm they seemed to be in the middle of, “I thought you meant that we’ll be eating in a  _restaurant_!”

“Boring,” Tom replied, pulling Harry to walk right next to him, causing some of the soggy noodles to fall out of the cup. Clutching the boy’s shoulder Tom wondered if the brat would ever grow taller. “Keep walking.”

“Where are we going!?”

“You’ll find out eventually.”

 _‘He’s insane,’_ Harry thought sullenly and sniffed the cup of noodles before wondering if it would be horrible of him to just throw it away. “Why are we in the middle of a snowstorm?”

“It’s just a little bit windy here, Potter. Harry. Don’t exaggerate,” the Dark Lord sneered dismissively.

“The  _snow_ —”

“It’s winter. Of course there will be a little bit of snow.”

“A little bit—!?” Harry exclaimed, before snapping his mouth shut and shaking his head. He was getting tired of screaming to be heard and decided to wait until they were in some other place with less wind and less snow – hopefully soon.

After walking for a few moments, Harry saw a dark shape in the distance. He couldn’t quite tell what it was with the snow obstructing his view. It was a big building of some kind, though. Maybe they were going to a restaurant after all? Why on earth didn’t Tom just apparate them there, then?

“Where exactly are we?” Harry asked. “On the map. Which country, even?”

“Can’t say.”

“Are we still in Europe?”

“Hm.”

“That’s not an answer,” Harry said, scowling. He glared at the cup of noodles – if they could be called that anymore – and let it fall from his hands. In but a few seconds, it was buried beneath a new layer of snow.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tom replied absently. Harry sighed and narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what the building in the distance actually was. It looked a little bit like a… fortress, actually.

“What  _is_  this place?” Harry asked as soon as they were close enough to see the huge iron gates. “You’re not going to kill me and leave my body to rot there?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tom sneered. “I’m not going to kill you.” The man scowled then, not liking in the least how  _true_  his statement was. It wasn’t comfortable at all to realize that, for once, there was someone he  _would_  mind getting rid of.

“Well, that’s nice to know,” Harry huffed. “Why not apparate there directly though?”

“I have wards preventing apparating to and from this place,” Tom explained, and with a wave of his hand, the gates started opening, creating a horrible creaking sound. Harry cringed, allowing himself to be dragged inside.

Not that the ‘inside’ was much better. Safe from the wind and snow, sure, but it was by no means warm. The area inside the fortress was cold and dark and grim, and Harry doubted that anyone would willingly live there.

“Come on, we’re going to the highest floor,” Tom said, and Harry hurried after the Dark Lord, feeling increasingly alarmed. This kind of place wasn’t the ideal set up for good news. Was Tom going to ask Harry a bit more about his talking to the dead thing?

It was, Harry believed, such a big thing that Tom really would  _not_  just let it be. The man must be up to something.

 _‘Even if he doesn’t question me about it today,’_  Harry thought,  _‘he definitely will do so at some other point. He’s crafty.’_

As they walked through the corridors and up what felt like an endless staircase, Harry saw no doors – none at all – but instead small windows with bars.

_‘Is this a storage of some sort? It looks like it could be… But why bring me here? Surely he isn’t planning on giving me a gift in return?’_

“Now,” Tom said, stopping in front of the first door Harry had seen since entering the fortress. “This room is divided to two parts. One part is for you and I to stand in while the other… is for the person I brought you here to see.”

“Who is in there?” Harry asked, feeling suddenly nervous. “Why… I just… What  _is_  this place?”

“This is my gift to you,” Tom replied with a strange little smile. “Nothing is more precious than good advice, Harry Potter. Remember that. Knowledge and power and what you can and should  _do_  with them. However… don’t reach too far lest you fall.”

 _‘If only he knew what Merope roped me into doing,’_ Harry thought, swallowing.

“As for what this place is,” Tom continued. “It’s called Nurmengard.”

*

“I heard from your grandmother,” an elderly man started, reaching for his glass of wine, “that you are… pursuing something that belongs to the Marvin family.”

“Inaccurate,” Truls snapped aggressively, the mere thought of referring to Harry as something that belonged to Clemens making him feel sick. “He doesn’t belong to the Marvins. What do you  _care_ , anyway?”

“He,” repeated the man, an unpleasant smile appearing on his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself  _attached_  to someone. Come on, son. That’s not good.”

“Again, what do you care?”

“Having bonds like that makes you vulnerable,” Mr. Kettil said. “And what leaves  _one_  of us vulnerable leaves  _all_  of us vulnerable as well.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Truls said, narrowing his eyes. “I’m surprised at having  _you_  lecture me about this, though.”

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Truls’s father said, lighting up a cigar. “Your mother doesn’t get attached to people, and your siblings seem to take after her… no matter how much they all pretend. You and I, though. I  _know_  how it feels.”

“I don’t think—” Truls started, then bit his lip and simply shook his head. There was no need or use to explain himself. Instead, he said, “Contrary to what you seem to think, I have everything under control.”

“Hardly, if you feel that a  _Marvin_  is a source of worry,” Mr. Kettil sneered. “And don’t even claim to not be worried – your focus was clearly elsewhere, to nearly  _lose_  the race against Duke Holstein-Gottorp and the Senkilsson heir.”

“Their horses were excellent,” Truls pointed out. “Besides, if I had beaten them too clearly, the audience would have grown bored of the predictable competition.”

“That’s my boy, always ready with an excuse,” Mr. Kettil said, grinning slightly. “Now, though, back to your problem—“

“I don’t  _have_  a problem.”

“Your grandmother said that it’d work well enough if you left the Marvin mess up on his own… but you should never let your success depend on luck.”

“Weren’t you  _just_  discouraging me against, how did you call it,  _getting attached_?” Truls said, before shaking his head and turning away.

“I’m not telling you to get attached,” Mr. Kettil claimed. “I’m telling you to not  _lose_. I know you – you’re attracted to the challenge, not the person. That’s how you and I are. You’re getting used to being attracted, which creates a sense of attachment. The sooner—”

“Just shut up, already.”

“—you get over it, the better. Grab your guy, drug him, do whatever your naïve little imagination tells you to do with him, and get it out of your system. You don’t have the time for this. For him, whoever he is. You can’t afford the bonds you  _think_  you want.”

“I can afford what I want,” Truls said calmly, eyeing his father with a calculative expression. “The question is: can  _you_  or anyone else afford to try and stop me? You know that regardless of the  _much praised_  traits in my siblings that you just mentioned… you won’t leave the family inheritance to _them_ unless you want for this family fall into ruin within a year.”

“You’d leave, then?” Mr. Kettil sneered, amusement vanishing from his expression and turning into something much darker at the sight of his son smiling.

“Hardly,” Truls replied. “ _I_  wouldn’t leave voluntarily, I assure you.”

However, if his father outlived his usefulness,  _well_ … Didn’t the man tell him to not get attached to people, anyway?

*

The name Nurmengard rang vaguely familiar, but before Harry could focus on trying to remember what it meant to him, the door was pushed open and he was let into the room. It was cold there. Not as cold as in the corridors, but cold nevertheless. The room itself was round, and in the middle, there was a set of vertical bars dividing the room into two parts.

“Bringing me guests, now?” a wheezy voice said, and startled, Harry focused on its source. Sitting behind the bars was a frail old man whose skull-like face and sunken eyes combined with the nasty smile made Harry feel very, very nervous.

“This,” Tom said, gesturing at the prisoner, “is Gellert Grindelwald. He is a prime example of someone with power, resources, and intelligence who tried to oppose me… but failed. What does  _this_  tell you?”

 _‘That opposing you is dangerous,’_  Harry thought, biting his lip. Why was Tom showing him this? He didn’t think that the other man was really giving him the opportunity to learn something from— Hold on a second,  _Grindelwald_?

“The previous Dark Lord,” Harry breathed, itching to step closer. “What…”

“I know your potential, Harry,” Tom said, and the boy felt the man’s hand on his shoulder again. “Your little gift with the dead, for example, is a rare talent. I have never heard of anyone with the same ability. However… the problem with having potential in something so rare and special is that… you end up with _ideas_ , Harry. Bad ideas.”

“Such as?” Harry asked warily, glancing quickly at Grindelwald, who was leaning against the stony wall of his cell with his eyes closed, seemingly ignoring their presence.

“You might be tempted to do something you shouldn’t,” Tom said. “Stay faithful and loyal to me, Harry, lest you meet an end neither of us wishes upon you.”

“Hooo,” Grindelwald suddenly said. “You’re warning the boy to not act against you? Good heavens, is he really _that_ valuable?”

“Isn’t it risky to keep him alive?” Harry asked curiously, gesturing at the former Dark Lord. “Not that I want him dead or anything – you know I’m not… into that stuff. Killing people, I mean. I just…”

“It’d be such a waste to kill him,” Tom replied. “All that power, all that knowledge. He’s harmless here. Harmless but useful. A tiger with its paws cut off can only use its mouth. And if the words he says are not valuable, he… knows what will happen.”

“He… gives you… advice?”

“Occasionally.”

 _‘That’s it, then,’_  Harry thought, swallowing and turning to look at Grindelwald.  _‘Like Merope said, Tom listens – to some degree – to those who are powerful. He recognizes Grindelwald’s power, and that’s why he occasionally listens to him seriously. However, since Grindelwald never defeated Tom, ultimately Tom will do whatever he wants to…’_

What did that leave him with?

In theory, the best way to go would be to –  _somehow_  – become powerful enough to at least hold his own against Tom. In reality, that was unlikely to happen. One needn’t be a genius to realize that Tom most likely knew spells that Harry – or most other people – had never even heard of.

No, even if defeating Tom would be impossible… if Harry could at least be a formidable opponent, then maybe somehow… Maybe he could achieve _something_.

“You brought the boy here to use me as a warning example,” Grindelwald said and let out a cackle that made Harry feel chilled to the bone.

“You’re not yet past your expiration date,” Tom replied evenly.

“Who is he?” the previous Dark Lord asked, his sunken eyes fixed on Harry. “Is he the ‘ _someone else’_  you found? Does he talk back to you?” The old man fell silent for a moment, before leaning forward with a grin. “Didn’t know you went for kids, though. Is it the eyes that got you?”

 _‘What on earth,’_  Harry thought, the implications of Grindelwald’s words making him confused and uncomfortable.

“I believe we have no reason to stay any longer,” Tom said coldly, ignoring the other wizard as if he hadn’t spoken anything. “Unless you have something to ask, Harry?”

“No,” Harry replied quickly. “We could just go—”

“Watch your step, boy,” Grindelwald called after Harry. “The big bad snake isn’t just ‘not held back’ by morals. He doesn’t even comprehend them.”

*

“If I could see more than what’s in front of me,” Sirius muttered sullenly. “What does that even  _mean_? Stupid wolf.”

Lupin was  _clearly_  implying something… but Sirius couldn’t figure out what exactly. It was maddening! Distracting! As if he needed anything to get distracted by, what with the Triwizard Tournament approaching. The plans were almost finished, and all he’d need was to make some test runs before sending out invitations to the schools he had selected.

The host school would be Hogwarts, of course. The place had enough space in it to host the handful of visitors from Durmstrang and Beauxbaton. He’d let the headmasters of each school pick their own students without setting any specific age restrictions.

 _‘I need to check that stupid goblet one more time though,’_  Sirius thought with a sigh. There was so much to do, and he was constantly worried about forgetting something important. If only he could go for a drink with James now to relax, but… that wasn’t something they could do anymore.

_‘I wonder if he’ll get better anytime soon. I… I wonder how Harry’s doing…’_

It felt like an eternity since he had last heard from Harry. Sirius didn’t like that – he didn’t  _want_  to neglect Harry in any way, but it just felt so wrong to contact his godson without James knowing or caring. Maybe it was stupid, but Sirius didn’t want James to think that he was trying to become some kind of a… father replacement to Harry.

It all was just wrong. So wrong.

At least Harry wasn’t the sort to make trouble. Sirius couldn’t remember an instance in which he would have needed to interfere in order to do something to or for Harry. The boy took more after Lily than James, after all.

 _‘Maybe that’s because he never had the chance to take after James,’_  Sirius thought, remembering how relaxed their days at Hogwarts had been. Plenty of time for pranks and such. Nothing at all like Harry’s busy life at Durmstrang, surely.

What a pity it was that Harry had gone to Durmstrang, really. Sirius was sure that, had Harry gone to Hogwarts after all, things would have been a little bit different. Maybe not different enough to change anyone’s… entire situation, but just enough to let Sirius have a better chance at being involved in his godson’s life.

 _‘I suppose it’s pointless to think like this,’_  Sirius thought, sighing.  _‘What if. What if. So many possibilities. I wonder if there’s a way to see the consequences of all the ‘what ifs’.’_ Or then again… maybe not.

It’d make him feel terrible if he was to ever become aware of all the wrong decisions he had made in his life.

Or worse – what if he ended up seeing some other reality that would make him dissatisfied with what he had now? Something that would entrance him and make him compare what he had to what he could have had. What if he’d end up seeing Re— No. No.  _No_.

Dissatisfaction.

Sirius had sacrificed too much to afford it.

*

Still within the fortress, Tom led Harry to what the boy suspected were the only decent rooms in Nurmengard. With a sigh, he sat down on a chair while the Dark Lord summoned a house-elf to light up the fireplace and bring them something warm to drink.

“So?” he asked eventually, eyeing Harry with a contemplative expression. “What did that teach you?”

“A lot,” Harry replied, feeling his heart become heavier than it ever should be. “Do you really think that I would ever betray you?” Because what he _was_  going to do wasn’t a betrayal… at least, Harry would like to believe it to be much closer to saving than betraying.

“You couldn’t,” Tom said. “But I’d rather you wouldn’t even try.”

“Can I ask you something?” Harry suddenly started, eyeing the Dark Lord with a curious expression. “Just one question.”

“Go ahead,” Tom said, “I’ll let you have one question… and then I’ll be doing the asking.”

 _‘That doesn’t sound too good,’_  Harry thought nervously. Regardless, he took a deep breath before setting down his cup of tea carefully onto the table and leaning forward.

“Why Durmstrang?” Harry asked. “Why was it created even though everyone else will become a Death Eater anyway? To create a bunch of elite, talented, powerful Death Eaters? Why so suddenly?”

“What would I do with the  _weak_?” Tom sneered. “Doesn’t it make sense to you that I would create a place from where I could have my pick of useful servants?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“No buts. That’s all there is to it. The prestige of Hogwarts is paling in comparison to what Durmstrang has become. The most extraordinary students attend Durmstrang to become the most extraordinary soldiers of mine. That is an honour to every family—”

“I’m not saying that it isn’t an honour!” Harry exclaimed. “I just—”

“Well,” Tom cut in with a charming smile. “That answers your question, then. Now… it is my turn, I believe.”

 _‘I should have expected this,’_  Harry thought, but did not find it in him to feel annoyed. He knew that at this point still, he was nothing but a fascinating and potentially useful child in the Dark Lord’s eyes, and he would remain so until he proved his worth and stood out in terms of magical power and skills.

He would need to train like Merope had told him to. But how?

A vague, shaky, hesitant idea made its way from the nearly forgotten corners of Harry’s memory, and the boy remembered a notebook. The notebook that he had been interested in years ago. The notebook he had started reading quite a few times but never got past the first few pages.

The diary of Haines.

Maybe he could find something useful in it. Maybe Harry could learn something Tom didn’t know. Maybe there was an actual  _chance_ —

“How stupid did you feel after realizing that I am the Dark Lord?” Tom asked, startling Harry. “You were pretty sure about me not being—”

“Because it sounded ridiculous!” Harry exclaimed, all too aware of the blush that was crawling up his neck. “You didn’t really _act_ like the Dark Lord, you know. What made you focus on me to begin with, anyway?”

“Your wand,” Tom drawled. “We haven’t spoken of that yet, have we? That you have the brother wand of mine.”

“How did you find out?” Harry asked, wondering if he should feel nervous. Perhaps he should have, but he did not think that Tom would actually  _do_ anything to him. Not now.

Not  _yet_.

“Ollivander, of course,” Tom replied and then leaned forward to touch Harry’s chin with his fingertips. His red eyes were fixed on the boy’s face, making Harry feel more self-conscious than ever before.

“You are such a fascinating child,” Tom murmured. “You converse with the dead and possess a wand worthier than most others. You study at the most demanding school in Europe and beyond and seem to be doing well enough there. This is why, Harry, I brought you to this place.”

Harry would have replied, said  _something_ , but his voice seemed to have vanished. All he could do was stare at Tom with wide eyes, his heart beating fast in his chest, wondering what the Dark Lord would say next.

“Gellert Grindelwald had power,” Tom continued, still not letting go of Harry. “He had power, he had followers, he had experience, and he had intelligence. And yet, he failed when he went against me. If he had not been foolish enough to consider himself my equal, he could have still been great – he could have been one of my finest. He was foolish, though. And that foolishness got him trapped within a dark, cold cell without magic. Alone and powerless. What a  _waste_.”

Tom finally let go of Harry and leaned back on his chair, although he kept his eyes fixed on the boy.

“You have power, Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord said. “You have power that manifests itself in ways I have never seen before. Do not make the _mistake_  of standing against me, because I do  _not_  want to lose such an asset.”

Harry sat on the chair, feeling breathless, hesitation sweeping into him and twisting his supposedly confirmed plans. He knew now why Merope had wanted him to focus on saving Tom, not on saving the Wizarding World.

Had he chosen the latter, he would have indeed ended up standing against the Dark Lord. However… If he wanted to  _save_  Tom, he had a loophole in Tom’s reasoning that he could use. Because everything Harry would do, in the long run, would be for Tom.

“I promise to never betray—”

“People  _lie_. Words are meaningless on their own.”

“What do you want, then?” Harry asked, pressing his sweaty palms against the fabric of his trousers.

“Right now, nothing,” Tom replied evenly. Harry was, after all, much too young to be a part of a binding contract. “But when the time comes… a _vow_.”

*

By the time Harry returned back to his flat, he was exhausted, even though he hadn’t really  _done_  anything. His conversation with Tom kept buzzing inside his mind, giving him a headache, and he couldn’t help but  _worry_.

After shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes, Harry collapsed onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Why was everything so complicated? He felt as if there were a thousand things that needed to be done – tasks all over the place, chaotic and without a clear plan.

He’d need to get stronger. He’d need to learn spells and how to use them. He’d need to practice and become someone who could actually  _do_ something. For Tom. To make him mortal and show him that it wasn’t a bad thing at all.

Could he ever do that, really?

_How?_

Merope had called it ‘saving’ Tom, and Harry wanted to believe that. It’d make everything easier in the long run if Harry wasn’t  _against_  Tom as much as just… doing something that was for his own good.

 _‘He said he wants a vow from me,’_  Harry thought, sighing _. ‘Why? He doesn’t request a vow from everyone, I know that. Does he request vows from his inner circle? Or am I just… a special case?’_

The problem with Tom was that he was honestly unpredictable. And no matter how hard Harry tried, he couldn’t quite understand, comprehend, or even figure out what on earth the man’s motives were. The logic of that genius mind was something that, in Harry’s opinion, made it all the more obvious how special the Dark Lord truly was.

That  _mind_. Harry admired and respected it as much as he feared it.

So confusing. Why was life so complicated? Harry wished he could have Filippa or Truls there so he could have someone to talk with. Someone he could completely trust. Someone who would just…be there and comfort him.

 _‘I miss Truls,’_  the boy thought suddenly.  _‘I wish school would start again already. I wish everyone would come back and I could focus on some other things. I wish I could go home and feel comfortable there.’_

Thinking of home made Harry think, once again, of Haines. He hadn’t brought the man’s journal with him this time – he had nearly forgotten about its existence, after all. He knew where it was though. It was in his room in the bookshelf on the right side of his desk, on the uppermost shelf.

If only there was a way for him to go home right now, to get that notebook. He wanted something to  _do_.

 _‘Maybe I could,’_  Harry thought suddenly _. ‘I could request a portkey to the closest portkey and apparition point and then just walk home. It’d be better than waste my time here doing nothing. I’ll just end up thinking too much. Clemens won’t be back anytime soon, yet.’_

The more he thought about it, the more doable his little plan seemed. It shouldn’t be a problem, should it? The portkey’s target information was registered in his school file – it would, after all, have the same destination as all the other portkeys he took in order to go home from school – and requesting it from the deputy headmaster shouldn’t take longer than a few minutes, especially if he were to send an owl…

Decision made, Harry moved to write his message. Just a short, polite note about needing to suddenly go back home – just like he had done when he and Clemens went to Hogsmeade. It was lucky that Durmstrang pointedly didn’t forbid its students from travelling and being independent as long as they managed to keep up well with their studies.

Rather than genuine trust, Harry believed that the reason for that was simply to show other schools that not only was Durmstrang superior as an institution, but also its students were far more responsible and capable than the students of other schools.

It was quite silly, actually.

 _‘I should change my clothes before I go,’_  Harry thought as soon as he sent his request with Hedwig.  _‘I can eat at home. I wonder if dad’s there. If he is…’_

Well, Harry would deal with that, then.

*

Tom Riddle was staring at the small gift Harry had given him with no little amount of suspicion. He hadn’t expected the boy to give him anything. It simply hadn’t even crossed his mind that Harry would actually give him a neatly wrapped gift with a  _ribbon_  at the top and everything.

A  _ribbon_!

“ _Is it dangerous?_ ” Nagini asked.

“I doubt that,” Tom replied, wondering if opening the gift was going to give him a bigger headache than the one he had already. His trip with Harry to Nurmengard had been very necessary and he was satisfied with it – although he could have done without Grindelwald’s comment regarding Harry’s eyes.

What was it with everyone – well, the boy’s father and Grindelwald, but anyway – thinking that he was interested in Harry Potter is such way? Sure, perhaps considering a thirteen-year-old boy a companion of some kind and dragging him around and just liking spending time with him… perhaps that wasn’t normal or expected, but surely that did not make him a pedophile?

The genuine fact was: he wasn’t sexually attracted to Harry, and not just because the boy was, well, just a child. He was fascinated by Harry’s mind and abilities, but nothing more.

It wasn’t like Tom had ever felt any genuine romantic or sexual interest in _anyone_. He went through the motions whenever it was beneficial, but such bonds and activities had never been of any sincere interest to him. He didn’t deem them particularly important or enjoyable and did not understand why that kind of interest was what people though he had for Harry.

“ _Is it food_?” Nagini hissed, leaning closer to the gift.

“Unlikely,” Tom replied, finally reaching forward to take a hold of the small gift. It didn’t weight much. Just what on earth could it be? Maybe he really should open it to see what it was – that’s what was meant to be done to wrapped gifts anyway, right? To unwrap them and see the gift itself.

Tom hadn’t been the receiving end of many gifts in his lifetime. Even during Hogwarts and after it, as his reputation established itself and his powers grew… people simply didn’t seem to consider him as the sort to appreciate presents. And they were  _right_.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the point – he did. However Tom had two reasons for not liking receiving gifts: he couldn’t trust the item he was given to not having been tampered with. Most importantly though, he simply didn’t like the feeling of owing someone anything, even if it was, well, a  _gift_.

If he wanted anything, he was perfectly capable of  _acquiring_  it, thank you very much.

Regardless of all that… it somehow  _pleased_  him to receive a gift from Harry. It didn’t make sense why he was so pleased, but rather than dwell on that, Tom finally undid the ribbon on the gift and delicately undid the wrapping, careful to not rip the cheap, colourful paper. In the end, he had a simple black box on his lap, and with little hesitation, he finally pulled off the lid of the box.

There, resting on white satin, was a pair of black leather gloves.

They were, Tom decided after careful inspection, ordinary gloves. They were nice – warm, comfortable leather that looked good and elegant and expensive – but certainly nothing he wouldn’t have been able to get for himself if he had cared enough to do so.

Why would Harry – who surely knew that Tom could get a pair of nice gloves whenever he so wished – give him a gift like this?

What was the  _point_?

Or was this, maybe, yet another one of those things that he didn’t understand, simply because Harry was such an  _emotional_  creature who valued silly things and made pointless gestures. What was his aim, anyway? His motive? Why gloves, why to Tom, why waste his money on something worthless like this?

This was the boy who, Tom reminded himself as if to reaffirm the ridiculousness that was Harry Potter’s logic, believed in the equality of all creatures and the possibility of peace.

‘ _Perhaps he and I were meant to meet,’_  Tom thought.  _‘Perhaps he has the power I need, and I have the control and understanding he needs to use those powers.’_

Maybe next time when he would meet the boy… he would start testing what his skills could be used for.

*

It was oddly nostalgic, Harry thought, to return to the Potter Manor. As he walked towards the door, sliding past the familiar wards, Harry felt as if everything was different. He felt like a stranger, and that feeling only intensified as he entered the house and saw the dark, silent rooms and corridors.

It was as if the whole house was void of life.

 _‘I’ll just get the notebook quickly,’_  Harry thought, moving as quietly as he could. There was something in the atmosphere that simply compelled him to be as silent as possible. Perhaps it was foolish of him to behave like this in his own house, but…

It just didn’t  _feel_  like his own house, anymore.

The atmosphere in his room wasn’t better at all – the door had been left open, and Harry’s overactive imagination whispered to him of shadows with forms and intentions hiding beneath his bed and inside his closet, waiting for him to let his guard down.

Wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers, Harry quickly reached to take Haines’s journal and shove it into the small bag he was carrying. He then cast one last look at the room, wondering if something really was hiding there, before he turned to walk towards the kitchen.

He was very tempted to call for a house-elf, if only to see someone else alive inside the manor. He didn’t do that, however. Perhaps because the house-elf would be noisy and if… if James was somewhere there, in one of the rooms, asleep… then Harry didn’t want to wake him up.

No, it’d be better to not call any house-elves. Harry could make himself a quick snack easily before heading back to Durmstrang. Or better yet… he might as well leave now. He had money, he could just eat outside. There was a nice, comfortable restaurant not too far from the Potter Manor – Harry had been there once before, years ago.

With his mother.

He knew that the restaurant served wonderful dinners – he remembered his mother praising them time and time again. Back then, James, too, had—

 _‘No, don’t think of James,’_  Harry told himself hastily, reaching the house entrance door and closing it behind him, carefully resisting the temptation to slam it shut. He turned up the collar of his coat and made his way down the familiar road, never having felt quite so lonely and  _different_  before.

The dusty snow beneath his feet reminded him of the times spent with his mother and of the last Christmas – such a long time ago – they had spent together. It’s as if those memories belonged to someone else, and try as he might, Harry could not find in himself the will to be the person – the happy, carefree, safe person – he had been back then.

Maybe he was growing up, and this was part of that.

He entered the restaurant and allowed himself to be led to a table – any available table, he wasn’t going to be picky – trying to not be overwhelmed by the feelings that seemed to be twisting inside him then. The waiter offered him a menu, and Harry barely took a look at the selection before picking the first thing that sounded vaguely familiar.

And then he waited.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” a squeaky voice asked, and startled, Harry looked up from the tablecloth to see a short man with a balding head and wide blue eyes smiling pleasantly at him.

“No,” Harry replied reluctantly. The man offered him another smile and sat on the empty chair in front of Harry, before gesturing for a waiter to bring him a menu as well.

“You’re James’s son, aren’t you,” the man asked, startling Harry again.

“Yes,” Harry replied warily, narrowing his eyes.

“I’ll take number five, please,” the man told the waiter, handing back the menu. “And red wine.”

“Are you a friend of my dad’s?” Harry wanted to know, wondering what he should do.

“No,” the man replied. “I am not his friend. He is one of mine, though.” Harry bit his lip, unsure of how to take that statement.

“What do you want, then?” the boy finally asked.

“To talk with you,” the stranger told him. “I didn’t want to get involved this much, but you’re letting your father drag you down too much.”

*

Despite the fact that Araminta Meliflua was – politically speaking – on Bellatrix’s side, Lady Lestrange couldn’t find it in her to  _like_  the old woman. The old bag of bones was condescending and set on her ways and that was enough to drive Bellatrix to the brink madness every time they ended up having a lengthy conversation.

Especially when the subject of the conversation was most certainly something Bella did  _not_  wish to discuss.

“Have you considered trying for a child again?” Araminta said with mocking sweetness. “I know that at your age that could be _quite_ difficult, but there are  _spells_ …”

“The Lestrange family has an heir already,” Bellatrix stated coolly. She didn’t  _want_  a child, no matter what Rodolphus – or anyone, for that matter – said. “Rabastan’s son, Anthony, has been brought up as an heir and will be more than adequate to take over when the time comes.”

“That boy is far too hot headed.”

“He’s one of Durmstrang’s outstanding students.”

“Yes, well. He was admitted  _before_  the selection, isn’t that right? He’s not one of the  _real_  Durmstrang products,” Araminta said, and Bellatrix could do little but shrug. The older woman was right, unfortunately.

“He would have been selected, regardless of the timing,” Bellatrix said. “It’s not as if there are many amongst the chosen ones who are genuinely outstanding.”

“Many,” Araminta repeated slowly. “So there are a few, hm?”

“Perhaps one,” Bellatrix said, fleetingly remembering a pair of green eyes and a pale, upturned face. “It remains to be seen.”

“Oh yes… the tournament young Sirius spoke about,” Araminta said, her painted lips twisting into a cold little smile. “The champions will show us their worth then, hm? I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’re not the only one. The plans cousin Sirius has for the Triwizard Tournament are absolutely delightful… although he spoke of modifications regarding not only its title but the number of champions as well,” Bellatrix said. “I’ve seen his plans… the tournament is going to be _very_ different from how it used to be.”

“There are rumours that Sirius will be using some Rebels. Is that true?”

“I came up with the idea with him, actually,” Bellatrix revealed. “We thought that it’d add some extra flavour to the audience… and give the champions a taste of what will be waiting for them.”

“Delightful,” Araminta said, nodding. Bellatrix eyed the older witch’s sparkling diamonds, wondering if she should demand more of those silly trinkets from Rodolphus. Gemstones or not, Bellatrix had never seen the appeal of owning something – even jewellery – if it had no magic in it.

“Do you know how the competitors will be chosen?”

“At random, I believe. If he manages to modify the magic that selects the number of candidates chosen, Sirius will use the Goblet of Fire.”

“Ah,” Araminta sneered. “That.”

“It’s a powerful magical artefact,” Bellatrix reminded her. “Nothing to sneer at, surely.”

“The wizard who created it was French,” Araminta told her, as if that explained everything. To the old witch, perhaps it did. “Make sure Sirius nominates Anthony. I wish to see that boy proving himself.”

“I have no say in who gets nominated,” Bellatrix replied. “I believe that whoever so wishes may enter their name and be considered.”

“Surely not every weakling—”

“The weak will be forced to consider carefully,” Bellatrix interrupted, a smile appearing on her face. “The probability of  _all_  of the competitors getting out alive is not hundred percent. Especially if the number of the competitors will be increased…”

“That will just make it all the more interesting, wouldn’t you say,” Araminta murmured, clearly pleased. “The tournament will take place after the summer, hm? I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I,” Bellatrix said, leaning back on her seat. With any luck, it’d truly be a fantastic show.

*

“Emotionally, I mean,” the stranger clarified, leaning back when Harry’s order was set on the table in front of them, followed by his own order a few moments later.

“Don’t storm out on me, angry,” the man continued. “But I would like to point out that the pathetic state your father is in right now… you should accept it and move on. He will not get better.”

“How do _you_ know?” Harry replied sharply, his hear beating so hard inside his chest that it almost hurt.

“Eat,” the man said, pointing at Harry’s plate with his fork. “You already know that your father is not going to get better. That is why you’ve given up on confronting him. Yet, even though you know that it’d be hopeless… you still feel guilty for not trying anyway.”

“I don’t—,” Harry croaked, his voice breaking in the middle of a defensive sentence he had been about to offer. He didn’t understand who this person was, didn’t know how on earth he could guess the feelings Harry had carefully not even  _thought_  about…

“Don’t convince yourself of having to pay the price of your father’s failures,” the stranger told him. “You keep doing that. Paying the price when your parents fail you.  _Every_  time.”

“My mother has never failed me.”

“Oh, she  _has_. In ways far worse than your father now.”

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” Harry demanded to know, trying to understand what the man was telling him.

"In some other universe, there's a you… whose father died before his mother," the odd man told him, his light blue eyes so void of life. "His mother went mad."

“In some other…” Universe? Surely he didn’t mean…

“Parallel worlds,” the man said dismissively, as if those two words would explain everything. And strangely enough… they kind of  _did_. "And somewhere else... before the beginning, in the truest of all, there's a you who grew up with no parents at all, and would have given anything to have either one of them alive, regardless of how they would treat him."

“Why would I believe you?” Harry asked, even though he knew – knew as surely as he knew that Merope was dead and the trains to nowhere existed – that the man was speaking the truth. Oddly… it felt as if Harry had been waiting to hear these words, as if he had been aware of them, just waiting for someone to speak them aloud.

“You’ve been to  _that_  place,” the man said, before leaning forward slightly. “The station.”

“This is… this can’t… who are you?” Harry demanded to know. “How do you know this—”

“I know the place because I was there,” the stranger told him, his watery blue eyes fixed on Harry. The man appeared completely calm. “And I will go back there once my job here is done.”

“What is your job?”

“Never mind that. Finish your food, Harry.”

“You said that there’re other… realities?” Harry said, unsure of what to believe and whether or not to take this person seriously. He couldn’t afford not to… the man just seemed… He knew about the  _station_.

“Yes,” the man said. “And all these realities are connected by a railway. Each reality has its own station, and… well, I do not know much of how the dead are divided, but I know that there are countless other stations.”

“How do you know that?”

“I used the trains to get here. I… I was… alive elsewhere.”

“Why did you come here, then?” Harry asked, hating himself for not knowing what kind of questions he should be asking. “Do you know why _I_ end up going to the station?”

“I have a task to do,” the man replied, and for the first time, he seemed distressed. “I made a mistake, you see. In my original lifetime. I made a terrible, terrible mistake. I was a coward, and now I’m paying the price. I still have a few more realities to go to before I can finally rest.”

 _‘This so unreal,’_ Harry thought. Then again, was it any less real than all the strange, unbelievable things that had happened to him so far? “What… what about the other me you spoke about? The me whose… father died, and mother… mother…”

“Went mad,” the stranger finished for him. “You needn’t think of him. Unless you ever board the train, it’s unlikely that you two would ever meet.”

“I just… Is he as weak as I am?” Harry blurted out before feeling a blush crawl up his neck. “I just… I’m… so confused by everything and…”

“You’re not weak,” the man said confidently. “And neither is he. You are very different, though. And very, very similar as well.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You don’t need to. Forget him for now; he’s not the reason why I chose to approach you and tell you about this.”

“Why, then?” Harry asked, and the man smiled before putting down his glass of wine and speaking the words that were so eerily familiar to Harry by now.

“There’s something you must do,” the man said. “Get stronger… and do it.”


	23. Chapter 23

Peter, the man had introduced himself as.

He had looked ordinary –  _so ordinary_  – and yet, he was anything but.

Harry couldn’t remember his parents – or anyone, really – ever mentioning a Peter. And yet, the name rang familiar, and he felt as if he  _knew_  who the man was. Knew and just couldn’t remember. Knew and didn’t like. Knew and…  _resented_.

Clutching the journal of Haines Potter in his hands, Harry used the portkey to return to Durmstrang, thinking of Tom, Grindelwald, and Peter. There were so many things he was supposed to take into account and that made him worry about forgetting something important.

Merope had told him to focus on getting stronger for now, and Harry was inclined to agree with her and focus solely on that. Reading up about the Gone Tribe wouldn’t hurt though. He’d just keep it as an option. A last resort.

 _‘I wonder when Clemens is coming back,’_  Harry thought suddenly, entering his flat and shrugging off his coat.  _‘Tomorrow, yes, but when exactly.’_ Without realizing it, his worried expression had melted into a smile as he thought of the German boy. Clemens had said that he’d return as soon as he could, hadn’t he?

Then again, there wasn’t much left of the Christmas break itself, and soon enough, everyone else would be coming back, too. And they’ll go back to the routine of practicing spells and trying to survive dueling classes and worrying about Jakob.

What he could do now, though, was try to stay up to date on what’s going on in the war front. James was – who knew where he was, really. What about Sirius? It was as if, after Lily’s death, Harry had lost the rest of his family, too.

Was it… was it completely  _wrong_  that Harry resented James, a little bit? Was he a bad person for not just… forgiving his father? Maybe he should be more understanding, more patient. Though try as he might, Harry couldn’t bring himself to do so.

 _‘I shouldn’t think that,’_  the boy thought then _. ‘I need to find something else to do. Something else to focus on. Anything…’_

Then again, it had been a long day, so perhaps going to sleep would be the best course of action? He’d shower first and then go to bed. And tomorrow, well, Clemens would be coming back, and somehow, that made the future seem a lot less boring.

*

“The Triwizward Tournament?” Anthony Lestrange repeated, turning to look at his aunt with a curious expression. “It would bring honour to the House of Black.”

“If you get chosen,” Bellatrix said, sounding nearly bored. Anthony smiled, trying to not let his irritation show. He feared and respected his aunt, but the way she always treated him… it was almost intolerable.

“Of course he will get chosen,” Anthony’s father, Rabastan, said. “Isn’t Sirius the one organizing the tournament? We’ll just tell him that we want Anthony to represent Durmstrang.”

“You are a fool,” Bellatrix said, gesturing for Uncle Rodolphus to pour more wine into her glass. “There will be several students sent from Durmstrang to Hogwarts where the tournament will take place. There, the competing champions will be selected by the Goblet of Fire.”

“But—”

“Not to mention that the students who will be chosen as candidates will need to be nominated by people of influence. And knowing how many heirs there are in Durmstrang… dear little Anthony will need all the votes he can get.”

“The three of us and Sirius will surely vote for him,” Uncle Rodolphus said, and Anthony nearly nodded in agreement. He didn’t want to seem too confident though, for fear of making Bellatrix choose someone else just to be contrary. The woman smiled though and shrugged.

“Sirius’s godson is in Durmstrang.”

“What’s his name?” Anthony asked. “Did he get in before or after the change of the entrance exam?”

“After,” Bellatrix replied. “He’s one of the so-called  _golden generation_. Harry Potter. He’s not the only one you need to be wary of; although you’re lucky that Cassius Meliflua is graduating in a few months. He’d be a tough candidate to beat. Viktor Krum has quite a few admirers.”

“He’s a  _quidditch player_ ,” Anthony exclaimed. “Not a duelist!” Not to mention that Viktor, who was a classmate of his, was awkward and ungraceful and couldn’t even  _speak_  properly.

Someone like that, the Durmstrang champion?

What a joke!

“People would love it, though,” Uncle Rodolphus said. “To see the famous Krum compete like that. Some will watch the tournament only for Krum. What do you think, Rabastan?”

“Durmstrang will want to win,” Rabastan said. “They won’t send someone who cannot win, just to draw an audience. They won’t sacrifice this opportunity to show how superior they are.” Anthony nodded, feeling relieved.

“I’m one of the best duelists in Durmstrang,” Anthony said quickly. “Crouch told me so.”

“One of the best,” Bellatrix said. “Not  _the_  best.” Anthony tensed, trying to keep his temper in check. Sometimes he truly hated his aunt and her condescending attitude.

“I still have time to practice,” Anthony told her, and Rabastan nodded.

“Yes, you’re right. There is still plenty of time left.”

“Time flies by fast,” Bellatrix reminded the two, before setting down her drink and standing up. “We will see what will happen. The selection won’t take place until after summer. Impress the right people and, who knows, you might end up a champion after all.”

“No need to worry so much about impressing people,” Rabastan said. “He has done so already!”

“A piece of advice, nephew, before I leave,” Bellatrix said. “ _Anyone_  from the Golden Generation will be a tough opponent to beat. You’d do well to remember that.”

*

Sirius was getting sick of firewhisky. Not just the taste of it, but the smell.

A part of him was getting sick of James too, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. Every time the thought crossed his mind, he just felt so  _guilty_. James had suffered such a huge tragedy and—

 _‘And instead of being there for Harry, he focuses only on his own loss,’_ Sirius thought, watching his friend order yet another pint. He really was a bad friend, wasn’t he? He just had no idea how to make James better. How to help him get over his pain and reach out for Harry.

Perhaps it was good that the Triwizard Tournament would take place in Hogwarts. If he got Harry nominated as a champion candidate, the boy would be in Hogwarts for a year, and Sirius could keep an eye on him. He would just need to convince a few other witches or wizards to nominate him.

“People are fighting over the summer holiday dates,” James suddenly said. “They stress so much over that.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing the same, or will Harry have to spend the summer alone?”

“How can I spend it with him?” Something in the way James asked the question made Sirius look away from the barmaid and stare at his friend.

“How could you not?”

James stared back at him for a few long, silent moments before he sighed. “How can I even face him? Sirius, do you think that I don’t know how much I have failed him?”

“But then—”

“But nothing. He’s better off without me, anyway.”

“How can you even say that?” Sirius demanded to know. “Where did you get those kind of ideas into that head of yours, Jamie?”

“Harry is in Durmstrang,” James said. “He’ll learn how to take care of himself. He doesn’t need _me_. I don’t have… I don’t think I know how to function right anymore, anyway.”

“I don’t get it,” Sirius said. “That doesn’t make any sense. What does that have anything to do with you spending more or less time with your son?”

“It’s not me spending time with Harry that is a chore,” James said listlessly. “I just… I don’t want it to be a chore to  _him_. I’ve let him down  _so much_ , Sirius. I don’t want to see him because I don’t want  _him_  to see  _me_.”

“I don’t get it,” Sirius sighed, and James shrugged.

“In a way I’m glad that you don’t,” the man said. “I wouldn’t want you to know how this feels. If I had any energy left, I’d feel horrible rather than just tired.”

“Tired and drunk,” Sirius pointed out. “Maybe you should stop drinking altogether. You haven’t yet committed an unfixable mistake.”

“Assume I did,” James said, leaning heavily against the back of his chair. “Assume I stopped drinking and started to spend more time with Harry… how would that benefit him?”

“Jamie—“

“Look, the thing is that… Lily is gone. I’m a sunken ship. All I can do now is help Harry stay afloat. If I… if I go near him, I’ll end up dragging him down.”

“That’s not true!”

“It  _is_ , Sirius.”

“You’re just coming up with excuses,” Sirius said, scowling, “to not go and see him.”

“Whatever,” James finally muttered, his shoulders slumped and face showing resignation. “You’re so high on the top you don’t realize the hard road Harry has to endure to reach you. Anything can knock him down. If he’s like… if he ends up being like me, a Death Eater who’s sent out to different fronts, he’s dooming himself to live a life of constant danger. The higher he is in the ranks, the safer he will be.”

“Come on,” Sirius said, standing up. “I’ll take you back home, and you can sleep. Maybe when you wake up, you’ll see the world for what it is.”

“It’s not the world that let me down, my friend,” James said, stumbling to follow Sirius. “It’s me.”

“Then maybe you should pick yourself up again,” replied Sirius.

*

When Clemens returned, he was pale and nearly shaking with anger. Harry didn’t speak, only made him a cup of coffee and set it in front of him. If Harry happened to keep his wand strictly within reach, well, he was just being cautious. He really liked Clemens – perhaps too much – but he was aware of how little he knew about the things Clemens could do if angered.

“Did you go and meet your father?” Clemens suddenly asked. Harry hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.

“No,” he replied. “I went home and he was… well, I don’t know where he was. Probably getting drunk with my godfather somewhere. Did you… How did your visit go?”

“Like expected,” Clemens said. “I’m glad I don’t need to spend time with any of them. Although I did hear something interesting. Something that may concern all of us.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, hoping that whatever Clemens had heard would not spell trouble for any of them.

“I didn’t get all the details, but apparently there’s some kind of a competition that will take place in England after summer. People from different schools will be invited.”

“I wonder if we’re expected to participate, or if it’s just for the older students.”

“I think it’s for all,” Clemens said. “Actually, I’d say it’s _mainly_ for us. We’re the ones who matter, after all. I guess it’s something we all need to volunteer for, or something.”

“I don’t really fancy competing in anything,” Harry admitted. “But I’d love to go to Hogwarts for a while, if that’s where the competition is held.”

“We should practice during the summer, then.”

“That would be fun. Before the Quidditch World Cup, right? I don’t think we have much time after it.”

“Sure,” Clemens said and nodded. “We can talk about it with the others when they come back. Let’s just hope we won’t end up having to duel each other, because Björn is wicked with that wand of his.”

“Björn?” Harry said, surprised. “I thought that you or Truls would be the best.”

“Not to brag or anything, but yeah, I am good because my dad used to teach me,” Clemens said, “Truls has massive magical reserves, and even if he doesn’t know any fancy curses, he can use the ones he does know numerous times without getting tired. Björn, though… he’s… crafty. Unpredictable.”

“That he is,” Harry agreed. “When did you get the opportunity to see him duel?”

“A few months ago, he was setting things straight with some older students,” Clemens said, “also, I’ve kept an eye on his work in class. He comprehends spellwork easily.”

“True,” Harry nodded. It was odd how easy it was to overlook how dangerous Björn was, simply because he was also a funny, easygoing person. “I just hope that the competition won’t end up pitching us against each other.”

“Unlikely,” Clemens said. “I’d imagine that the only reason for organizing an interschool tournament is to show which school produces the best students. Making students from the same school fight each other would defeat the purpose.”

“Of course,” Harry all but whispered, a strange ache in his chest. “To show which school produces the best fighters. The survivors.”

“It’s all about surviving, in the end.”

“Do you think that the war will start shifting north from Italy and Spain?”

“Definitely,” Clemens sighed. “I know that there’ve been some battles in France and Germany too, so…”

“But isn’t it amazing,” Harry started, “how  _widespread_  this battle is? You’d think that the people in Spain and Germany and so on… that they wouldn’t care to fight for ideals of a ruler in England.”

“It’s the power of the Dark Lord,” Clemens said. “Makes you… wonder…” Harry watched his friend silently for a few moments, waiting for him to continue. Clemens didn’t add anything though, and eventually, Harry moved to pour himself another cup of tea.

“I suppose the only thing we can do now is simply keep trying our best,” Harry said. “Practice dueling; keep our ears and eyes open for any news that may come our way.”

“While simultaneously trying to keep our grades up.”

“Yeah.”

“Easier said than done though, isn’t it?” Clemens asked. “There’s so much to do and I just… sometimes I just wake up at night thinking that I forgot to submit an assignment on time or something. I’m constantly worried about performing well, and I barely remember a time without this… crippling sense of anxiety.”

“You’re doing well though,” Harry reminded him, thinking of Jakob. “Or is there something specific…?”

“I make a lot of mistakes,” Clemens admitted with a small shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, I can make up for them, but sometimes, it’s as if some of the professors don’t want to… help?”

“Professor Kay is like that,” Harry agreed, nodding. “It’s rough, writing a great report that you end up having to rewrite completely just because he spotted one mistake.”

“Yeah, it makes effort feel so _pointless_ ,” Clemens sighed, running his fingers through his hair tiredly. “How many times am I going to fail before I can just give up and let go?”

“We’re done with two and a half years,” Harry said, eyeing his friend with a worried expression. “We can survive the rest.”

“Alive, maybe,” Clemens snorted. “ _Somehow_.”

*

“I just… don’t understand him anymore,” Sirius said, watching the werewolf warily. He wasn’t sure how exactly he had ended up telling it about James, but then again – who would it tell? And it was much more pleasant to talk with someone – some _thing_ , damn it – that could respond and react.

“I suppose you have not experienced grief quite as deeply as he has,” Lupin replied with irritating calmness, eyes still firmly fixed on the book on his lap. Sirius sighed loudly and resisted the urge to stomp.

“What would you know,” he sneered, and Remus –  _Lupin_ , for Merlin’s sake! Lupin,  _not Remus_! – finally looked up from the dull book that had held his attention for the past two hours.

“Quite a lot, I’d imagine,” Lupin said. “I wasn’t born a werewolf, after all. I was a human, and I got bit. That… caused more grief than you can comprehend, I suspect.”

“Stop treating me like an idiot, wolf,” Sirius all but growled. “Why can’t you just… learn your place or something?”

“You think less of me for something I can't help. I think less of you for something you choose to do,” the wolf stated simply. “One can only hope that, one day, you will see how wrong you are.”

“Wait, hold on a second. You’re not saying you actually  _like_  being a werewolf.”

“Curiously, the only hardships I have experienced due to me being a werewolf are because of people and how they treat me.”

“And you never wished you had died instead?” Sirius asked bluntly. Lupin rolled his eyes, and that gesture made him, just for the briefest moment, almost tolerable.

“I had a brother. He died after a werewolf, rather than turn him, decided to eat him. Perhaps it was mercy that made another werewolf turn me, rather than eat me.”

“ _Mercy_?”

“I can die any time I choose to. He left me with that choice to make. And having a choice is a luxury we can… seldom afford anymore.”

“Okay,  _whatever_ ,” Sirius said with a dismissive wave, trying to not show how much Lupin’s words bothered him. “Back to James and his chromic—”

“Chronic.”

“— stupidity.”

“It’s not stupidity,” Remus said. “It’s lack of confidence. He has lost his self-worth. Maybe he’s even depressed.”

“He’s not _depressed_ ,” Sirius was quick to claim. “He isn’t crying or anything. He should soon get over that grieving stage, honestly.”

“Depression and grief are not the same.”

“What would  _you_  know?” Sirius had expected the werewolf to respond in some way. To tell him something about how it has feelings too or how tough life is. What Sirius got instead was a look that told him nothing and a smile void of any good humour.

Lupin didn’t say anything, opting to refocus on his book instead, leaving Sirius to stare at him in silence.

“I just don’t understand how you think,” Sirius said after a while. “Does your kind have uncontrollable primitive urges? Do you always want to kill? Do you feel hunger all the time? Is a human in your eyes a prey or a predator?”

“I’m sure that any of the books on werewolves that have been written by highly praised professors will tell you all of what you need to know,” Lupin all but drawled. Sirius frowned.

If only that would be true.

The problem was that he had tried, actually, to reread one of his favourite books,  _An Unbiased Study on_   _Werewolves_  by Gordon Carrow, and had found it… painfully inaccurate at times. Mere months ago, Sirius had read the book with delight, absorbing each sentence eagerly, but now… each paragraph seemed like speculation, not research. Having observed Lupin for a while, there were so many things in the book that were simply _wrong_.

It was unsettling, because a part of Sirius was thinking of things he should definitely not think of.

As if Sirius didn’t have enough on his plate already, what with James and the Triwizard Tournament and nominating Harry and a dozen other things! He couldn’t wait for James to snap back to his senses and just start living again.

*

“It feels like ages since I last saw you,” Filippa exclaimed, throwing her arms around Harry and greeting him enthusiastically. “Is your hair longer? Do you want a haircut?”

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, hugging her back. “How have you been? Did you enjoy the break?”

“I bet she did,” Heidi said, sauntering past them. “You have to tell me all about the show in Milan, Filippa!”

“Of course I will,” the Italian girl said immediately, smiling brightly at her friend. “Will you drop by my place later on? How soon? I have a few pictures I want you to check out.”

“I can just go throw my luggage in my room and come by immediately,” Heidi promised. “So I’ll see you in a moment again.”

“Alright,” Filippa said, and turned to look at Harry. “Will you join us?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll pass this time,” Harry replied. “Truls should be here soon. Did you get my message by the way? About the Quidditch World Cup this year?”

“I did, and I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Filippa said, nodding. “Anyway, I have to go now. I’ll drop by later on so we can properly catch up. See you!”

“See you,” Harry called after her, feeling happy to see that the girl was now far more cheerful than she had been for quite a while. This was how things were supposed to be. His classmates, loud and talkative and happy. For a moment, for just this moment, Harry stood in front of his apartment and forgot about the things worrying him. 

For a moment, he thought of how beautiful the world would be if people were happier. If smiles were easily given and kindness a habit rather than a luxury.

 _‘I wish I could give Tom this feeling,’_  Harry thought _. ‘This happiness that fills me and leaves no space for much else until it fades.’_ That thought, for some reason, felt important. Important enough to be remembered.

Not wishing to stand in the hallway pointlessly for an unknown amount of time, Harry left the front door open and stepped back into his apartment. He knew that, eventually, Truls would wander in.

Eventually ended up being slightly less than an hour.

The break had lasted but a few weeks, and yet, Harry could see a slight change in his friend. Not just that his hair was now long enough to require pulling back, but also... there was something in the way he moved that seemed almost tense.

 _Aggressive, maybe_?

"You and Clemens are better friends now, I take it?" Truls asked, sitting on a chair and watching Harry wash the pair of coffee mugs that they had used. "You like him, now?"

"He's not bad," Harry admitted, thinking of how to describe the other boy. "But he's not... he's not you." Clemens was like a hawk, or an eagle - someone who was free to fly independently, a predator who could survive on his own. But he wasn’t trustworthy, and no matter how close they had gotten, Harry didn’t think he could count on Clemens to help him.

He simply wasn’t the loyal type.

"I got your message about the Quidditch World Cup trip," Truls said then, after a moment of strange, awkward silence. "I’m in, of course. Already told my parents to not demand anything from me during the summer.”

“Want to spend some days with me, then?” Harry asked, the question slipping out before he had made the conscious decision of voicing it. “I don’t think I’ll have much to do during the summer, anyway. Aside from watching Quidditch, I mean. Dad is… probably not going to be there, anyway. At all.”

“I’d love to do that,” Truls assured him quickly. “We can train together or something.”

“Speaking of training,” Harry started. “Have you heard anything of some sort of a tournament taking place soon?”

“A tournament? No. You have, I take it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I… I have. Hold on I’ll dry these and then tell you what I know.”

*

“I still think it’s cruelty to start Monday mornings with History of Magic,” Björn moaned as they entered the classroom. “I’m going to fall asleep and nothing will wake me up.”

“Except the sound of coins,” Filippa said dryly, sitting next to him.

“Or the sound of Mette Erling,” Heidi added cheerfully. “Who still, by the way, doesn’t know who you are.”

“I hate you all,” Björn said. “Even you, Harry.”

“What?” Harry yelped. “What did I even  _do_?”

“You were smirking! Is this the unfortunate side-effect of spending time with Clemens?”

“I’m good company,” Clemens was quick to claim.

“Sure you are,” Truls drawled, earning him a surprisingly sincere glare from Clemens.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.  _Obviously_.”

“I wonder when Professor Lyuben is going to get here,” Harry interrupted hastily, feeling unsettled by the nearly hostile tension between Clemens and Truls. “He’s usually early, isn’t he?”

“It’s still two minutes until eight sharp,” Nikolai pointed out. “It’s pretty cold outside, but I think I’m going to fly a little bit after classes are over. You guys in?”

“If it’s a race, I’m betting!” Björn said.

“If it’s a race, I’m in,” Truls grinned. Clemens nodded as well.

“Yeah, sure. Getting into the mood for the World Cup already,” the boy said. Harry grinned, feeling pleased every time someone mentioned anything related to the summer break. He couldn’t wait to actually  _be_  there, watching the game happen and enjoying every moment spent.

“Think Krum will be there?”

“Of course he will be! Man, we’re so going to brag about that guy, eh?”

“Speak for yourself. I have no intention of doing something like that.”

“That’s what you’re saying now. Just wait until—” Whatever Björn had been about to say was interrupted by the arrival of Professor Lyuben, who seemed to be in a mood worse than ever before. The usually calm man was visibly irritated, his face set in a severe scowl.

“Students,” he began, “the original study plan for today had been about the political impacts a series of muggle wars have had on our world. However, due to… unexpected circumstances, I have been required to teach you the history of something else.”

 _‘Anything is better than more talk about wars,’_ Harry thought. Lyuben eyed his few students with a mix of pity and disdain before he continued:

“The Triwizard Tournament—  _oh_ , I see some of you have heard of it. That does not matter – today’s lecture will not require active participation from any of you, but do listen carefully. This information might be part of history, but it will also be a possible part of your future as well, even though I doubt the wisdom of such… decision.”

 _‘He clearly disapproves of the whole tournament idea,’_  Harry thought. _‘That, or he had just really wanted to talk about muggle wars.’_

“The Triwizard Tournament is a competition in which three schools pitch in by nominating a champion. It was held for the first time in 1294 and was designed to test magical ability, intelligence, and courage,” Professor Lyuben said. “Champions compete for the honour and glory of winning the Tournament, the Triwizard Cup, and a monetary prize. The first Tournament was held in 1294, and the next one will be held later on this year.”

“What?” Petronella yelped. “Wait, we’re not required to participate, right? We’re—”

“You’re not required to participate,” Professor Lyuben assured her. “In a few weeks, you will be given an application form, which you will fill only if you wish to be nominated for participation. After you have submitted it – by the end of April – your name will be added into a list.”

“A list of… participants?” Jakob asked hesitantly.

“A list of _nominees_. Seven students will be chosen based on recommendations and suggestions and will go with Headmaster Karkaroff to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy in Britain, where the tournament will take place.”

“What about the classes that we miss?” Clemens asked. “I mean, if some of us go to Hogwarts – for how long will we be there and what will happen to our classes?”

“You would be staying there for nearly an entire school year,” Professor Lyuben said. “More information will be provided later on, of course. It is recommended that you try hard to not only be selected as the Durmstrang Champion, but also to go for the win. Be ruthless and cunning – this tournament is not a game.”

“Is it dangerous, then?”

“It was discontinued after 1792 after the death toll from previous years reached triple digits. The tournament is extremely dangerous, and I doubt that the rules regarding killing the competitors have been changed.”

 _‘Ideally,’_  Harry thought _, ‘it’d be lucky to get to be part of the group that goes to Hogwarts without being the Champion. I wonder if Truls and Clemens will want to do this…’_

*

Tom was tired.

It had been quite a few years since the last time he had felt tired like this. Since the beginning of the year, Rebel activities had increased in Italy and Spain, spreading to France and Switzerland far too easily. What was most alarming, though, was the Rebel activity in Ireland, the battles that seemed to become fiercer day after day and the assassinations carried successfully by the opposition. Tom had already lost three excellent Generals in Dublin, and the thought of losing more talented people was simply unacceptable.

The problem wasn’t just that the generals had died, but that they had been  _assassinated_. Two out of the three had been found dead in their tents, and that made them more than simple casualties of war. Therefore, either the Rebels had somehow recruited extremely skilled assassins or there were traitors in his ranks.

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t think that there would be traitors somewhere in his army, hiding and waiting for the opportunity to strike. He just… hadn’t expected them to be quite so skilled as to succeed in eliminating Death Eaters of significant ranks. He had miscalculated, perhaps due to the exhaustion plaguing him.

Tom had never been much of a sleeper, but nowadays, the time for rest had dwindled down to a few measly hours every other night. Strategies, one after another, had to be studied and carefully perfected. Political decisions had to be made, complaints looked into, missions assigned, all the while keeping up a facade of normalcy in order to keep the British public calm and at ease in regards to the war.

 _"You smell sick,"_ Nagini told him, and Tom yawned in response.

"I'm just tired," he said. "The situation should improve soon, though. There are some quite brilliant plans about to be set into motion. Though right now, I only need to confirm and accept two of these plans, and then, I'm free to rest."

 _"Is this war?"_  Nagini asked _. "Your two-legged pets keep talking about it."_

"They're fools," Tom replied dismissively. "We've slipped into war quite a while ago, and even if I were to confirm it and declare it publicly and officially now, nothing would change for the better. There will be no more or less military actions taken. People will just panic, and traitors will see opportunities."

_"What about your boy? Does he know?"_

"Know about the war? It would not... surprise me. It's very likely. I'd say yes, he knows at least something about it."

_"Hm."_

"Also," Tom added, "he's not  _my boy_." Speaking of Harry though, could his ability be of use at the time? Tom still only knew bits and parts of what Harry could do, but the little he knew held a lot of potential. Would Harry be willing to use that potential though?

"It would be quite useful if he could... talk with the Generals who were assassinated," Tom murmured. "Ask them who killed them. If there's a spy in the ranks. Find out what happened."

 _"Do you think he would help you?"_ Nagini asked.

"Perhaps not without a reason," Tom replied. "Luckily, I can give him one."

_“Well, doesn’t that sound promising.”_

“There are things he wants that I can give him. And since his father is pretty much out of the picture, it’s not like there’s anyone who is going to monitor his activities. A child his age… he will want some kind of guidance, I’m sure. Anything to not feel lost. He will want security _,_ safety.”

_“And you can give him that?”_

“I can give him _power_ ,” Tom said. “And power will help him keep himself safe.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, this is basically the last chapter of the "peaceful arc" that we've had with Harry up until now.
> 
> After this chapter there'll be a lot of stuff like drugs and eating disorders, suicides, deaths, graphic murders (none of which happen to, or are committed by Harry directly).
> 
> Just thought that I'd rather warn y'all now than let you read something that makes you go OK NO. Like when I'm reading shitty teen wolf fics and sudden unrealistic love by penis happens, and I backtrack like program lolnope.exe
> 
> So yeah. Warnings.

Filippa wasn’t in her flat. Either that, or she was ignoring Harry – which was quite unlikely. Harry stood in front of the closed door of her apartment, unsure of what to do next. He had been planning on talking with her, mostly about the Tournament, but he couldn’t do that if he didn’t find her first.

In all honesty, Harry didn’t want to go back to his own apartment either – he knew that soon enough, Clemens or Truls would drop by and while he really liked both of his friends, he didn’t feel like talking with them at the moment. It was strange, perhaps, that at times he needed a break from the presence of the very same people he usually wanted to keep near.

With a sigh Harry turned, only to come face to face with Heidi, who was clearly on her way up – presumably from Nikolai’s apartment to her own.

“Hi,” Harry said. “Have you seen Filippa?”

“I thought she was visiting you,” Heidi replied. “I saw her go down a little while ago.”

“Strange,” Harry muttered, frowning. There was a possibility that she was… but… would she? “All right, Heidi, thanks.” 

“No problem,” the girl replied with a bright smile, and continued her way up. Harry waited until the sound of her footsteps was gone before going down the stairs. He didn’t stop at his own floor, though, and continued instead to where Lorenzo’s empty apartment was.

 _‘I wonder if she’s really here,’_  Harry thought hesitantly, feeling slightly anxious.  _‘If she is, should I just leave her alone? What is she even doing there? How many times has she been here after Lorenzo died?’_

The distant sound of someone’s door opening a few floors up made Harry hastily pull out his wand and tap the lock of the door in front of him. In fear of being caught, he opened the door, stepped in, and closed it quickly. It was dark, cold, and empty. Filippa was sitting next to an empty fireplace- Harry stood awkwardly for a moment, barely daring to breathe.

“I’m sorry, were we supposed to hang out?” Filippa asked.

“No,” Harry admitted, moving to sit down in front of her, on the cold floor. “Are you okay?”

“How did you find me?”

“I bumped into Heidi. She was visiting Nikolai, and said that she saw you leave your own flat and go down. Between your flat and Nikolai’s flat are only two – mine and… this one.”

“Smart,” Filippa murmured quietly, before she sighed and reached to touch his hand, perhaps seeking comfort. “Are you going to sign up for the tournament thing?”

“That’s what’s making you worry today?” Harry asked, curling his fingers around her own.

“Today,” Filippa repeated. “We do seem to get new reasons every day, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I… yeah. If I get enough people to nominate me or something. I don’t know if I’ll succeed in that, considering the people I’ll be going up against. There are quite a few popular people in Durmstrang.”

“Why would you want to take part in it?” Filippa demanded to know. “It’s _barbaric_. Fighting to the death for no other reason but to hurt others?”

“No. Not… not quite. Not really. Filippa… taking part in this tournament – even winning it – will help me with… It will make me known. And if I get known for being strong, people will  _listen_  to me.” Harry took a deep breath before shifting to sit closer to his friend.

“Listen to you?” Filippa asked, narrowing her eyes. “You have a plan?”

“I have a _project_ ,” Harry told her. “There is so much wrong in this world, Filippa, and I know I can’t fix all of it. But I want to do what I can, and being known as strong and smart enough to win is going to make people take my words into consideration. You understand that, right?”

“Yes, I do,” the girl admitted. “I do, and I understand the necessity of what you’ve chosen to do. But Harry, it’s all so… so much bigger than  _us_.” Her dark eyes were wide, her voice both angry and sad. Harry wished he could tell her more – he wished he could explain how winning the tournament would make Tom notice him as someone strong enough to be an equal… but he couldn’t. Not yet.

“I know,” Harry said instead. “And it scares me. Bloody hell, it sure does. I’m scared. But if I don’t do it, Filippa, who will? I don’t _want_ to do it; I don’t want to risk my life to change a world that isn’t out to get me. It would be so _easy_ to ignore that this same world that accepts me, hurts and excludes so many others. But I  _won’t_. I won’t ignore it.”

“So you will change it.”

“I will _try_. Winning the tournament would help me, and that’s why I want to… need to do it.”

“Will you use whatever means necessary in order to win?” Filippa asked suddenly. “Even that… skill you told me about, a long time ago?”

“I don’t _want_ to, and I hope I won’t need to,” Harry replied. “But if I must, I will. I _need_ to win, Filippa. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she said, and then surprised Harry by smirking. “Well then, I guess you will have to start training. I doubt that the basic lessons we’re getting right now – no matter how hard Professor Crouch is being on us – will be quite enough.”

“You mean I should get another tutor?”

“If you can,” Filippa said. “Or I can help you train. I know a lot of spells that can prove to be useful. I can also send for more books that could be useful. If you end up being the Durmstrang Champion, losing will not be an option.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, feeling his heart beat fast against his ribs. “You’re right. You… you’ll help me?”

“Always,” Filippa promised. “Until the day I die.”

*

“We’ll start modifying the Quidditch pitch of Hogwarts as soon as the summer break starts,” Sirius said. Bellatrix grinned, and set a house-elf on fire.

“We’re finally getting somewhere with this project,” she cooed, “That’s great.”

“And that’s not,” Sirius said, banishing the elf with a flick of his wand, grimacing at the lingering stench of burnt skin. “I can’t wait to see the list of applicants. I wonder if there will be a lot of students trying their luck.”

“Your godson will be applying, won’t he?” Bellatrix asked, and Sirius narrowed his eyes, feeling unsettled by her interest in Harry.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Probably. I hope he does, it’d be great to have him attending Hogwarts for a year.”

“It’s unlikely that Durmstrang will let any of their chosen students sink to Hogwarts’ level,” Bellatrix sneered, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they had their own tutors with them.”

“Yes, true, but what I care about is having Harry in the castle,” Sirius said dismissively, “So he can see the places where his parents studied. He was there once – during some break, I’m not sure which.”

“Will the boy’s training be enough? My nephew Anthony is quite enthusiastic about this, and he… well, you know how he gets when he’s like that. If he won’t survive against Anthony, how could he survive against what you’ve planned?” Bellatrix’s lips twisted into a dark smile, and she leaned forward.

“Keep your cleavage away from me,” Sirius hissed, leaning back.

“Unless,” the woman said, ignoring Sirius’ words, “That is your plan. You wish to see the boy pushed to his limits. You want to see him broken and wounded, you want to see him—“

“No,” Sirius dismissed, “No. No. _No_. For Merlin’s sake, Bella, are you in your right mind today? Or ever? Where do you get these kinds of thoughts from, anyway?”

“Well, what else do you expect? If he’s not strong enough, he will die. Painfully. If he’s  _lucky_.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You’re trying to send him to his death while telling me that you have no such intentions. Come now, Sirius, I wouldn’t judge you,” Bellatrix said, patting the man’s arm soothingly. “I wouldn’t judge you at all. I never understood what you liked about the Potters anyway.”

“It’s none of your business,” Sirius replied stiffly. “Harry would be fine. He’s a smart kid and he would know what to do if he ends up being the champion. He would be just fine.”

“No. He really would not.”

“There’s still plenty of time for him to train and prepare, you know. I could get him a tutor for the summer.”

“Time flies.”

“So what’s your point?” Sirius finally snapped. “You want _me_ to train him? Start training him right now?”

“Merlin, no,” Bellatrix drawled. “That’d be cheating. I want nothing, cousin. I simply thought it to be of importance to point out that should your godson take part in the Triwizard tournament, he is going to be hard pressed to survive it, let alone win.”

“I won’t make his choices for him,” Sirius said.

“Because you fear the responsibility, hm?”

“Because his decisions are not mine to make. Whatever he chooses, I will support him.”

“Even if he chooses to foolishly risk his life and take part in the competition?” Bellatrix wanted to know.

“Really?”

“Where’s the harm?” Sirius asked, shrugging. “Even if I voted for him, who else would? The other participants will be nominated by many important individuals, I’m sure. Harry has only my vote, and it’s unlikely that he will get more than that. It won’t be enough to carry him through, you know. Realistically, he won’t be the champion.”

“If you say so,” Bellatrix replied, leaning back against her chair again. “If you say so, dear cousin.”

*

Balancing training with schoolwork in a way that didn’t make his absences seem suspicious was difficult. Harry slept less and couldn’t focus in class quite as well as he perhaps should have. He knew, however, that the extra training he was doing was much needed.

 _‘It’s not that I’m bad,’_ Harry thought, pressing his face against his pillow and enjoying the warmth surrounding him _. ‘It’s just that so many others are better.’_

The training itself was going well, even though it didn’t feel like he was doing enough. Harry was sure that all of the other people who wanted to take part in the tournament were being trained by tutors and were being helped by their parents. Harry only had Filippa.

Not that she wasn’t, well, hardworking. She was. And she knew quite a few spells that Harry had never even thought of. The problem was, simply, that Harry was very unlikely to use a spell to change his facial features or modify his clothes during a duel.

 _‘I need something else,’_  the boy thought. _‘Something more. I wonder if… Merope or Albus can help. Or Sirius. Is it too early to think of the tournament yet, though? I probably won’t even be selected.’_  Regardless, it was better to be safe than sorry. Asking Merope for help would cost him nothing. Should he do it now? Although he was tired and sleepy, he definitely wouldn’t have the time to do it in the morning.

Harry contemplated going to the kitchen and making himself a cup of coffee, but then decided to not bother. If he ended up falling asleep while talking with Merope – or before that – then so be it. He could always try again at the next given chance.

He did succeed.

The same old sliding sensation took him to the ghost-filled station, although this time it felt far more unpleasant than ever before.

Harry opened his eyes and shuddered, cursing himself for not even grabbing a coat or a pair of socks. It was cold and windy and rainy.

Harry was glad for the sheltered areas at the train station, and as he hid under one of them, he couldn’t help but realize that despite the constant cold and dampness of the place, it had never outright _rained_ before. He stared at the rain for a few moments, wondering if it was of any significance, before turning to look for Merope. He found her soon enough.

“You look less alive than I feel,” Merope said, eyeing him with a rather unimpressed expression. “What did you get yourself into this time?”

“Hi,” Harry said. “Is Albus here?” He watched as the woman threw her head back and shook it, rather aggressively, before fixing her unnerving eyes on him.

“He’s not. He has been… wandering around a lot, lately. Perhaps you will find the time to tell him to take care not to step under a train.”

“He’s not senile.”

“Did you come here to discuss Albus?” Merope snapped, suddenly angry. “You can see that he’s not here.”

“I actually came to talk about Tom,” Harry said quickly. “There’s a… tournament coming. I don’t know what will exactly happen there, but everyone says it’s probably dueling. I need to—“

“Dark Arts,” the woman cut in. “You will impress no one by using neutral spells, boy. In a duel you fight to win, you fight to hurt your opponent.”

“It’s not that simple,” Harry said, scowling. “You can’t expect me to believe that learning a few simple Dark spells will actually catch his attention. Numerous others will use Dark spells as well!”

“Well then,” Merope drawled, “the spells you will end up using will simply have to be outstanding, isn’t that right? And don’t argue with me, boy. If you’re not going to listen to my advice, I will stop giving it.”

“I don’t know any Dark spells anyway, and I don’t know anyone who’d teach me,” Harry continued. “It’s not like I can go to Sirius or anyone else and ask for their help. And I’ve heard enough stories to know better than to try learning Dark Arts on my own.”

“Figure it out,” Merope simply said. “My son has already expressed interest in you, has he not? He’s curious about you, has voluntarily spent time with you. It shouldn’t be tough for you to keep that interest from straying.”

The problem was that Harry didn’t even know if he _wanted_ to keep that interest fixed on him. He sighed, and took a step back. He felt tired and disoriented, and the trip here had been more trouble than what it was worth. He might as well return to his bed and rest.

“Potter,” Merope called out suddenly. “You’ve been reading about the Tribe.” Harry stiffened, unsure of how to respond. In the end he just turned and shrugged.

“I thought it would be wise for me to be informed,” he said. The gaunt woman smiled so unpleasantly, it made Harry look away.

“It would be wiser,” Merope said, “to not know of them at all. You see, boy, the more you know about them, the more aware of you they become. And their attention is something you do not want. Not yet. So stop.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry replied, “but I make no promises.”

And then he left.

*

The downside to being busy and having a lot to do was that time seemed to go by faster. Harry didn’t feel ready or confident when Professor Lyuben started handing out the application forms for the tournament.

“If you do not wish to participate,” the man said, “then of course do nothing with the paper. If you do wish to participate, fill it up and return it by the end of April – which is almost five weeks away. You have plenty of time to think carefully about whether or not this tournament is something you want to take part in.”

“Professor,” Nikolai started, “could you please tell us again the steps that we should take after we have handed in our applications?”

“Your names will be added to the list of nominees,” Professor Lyuben said. “If, say, fifty students hand in their correctly filled applications on time, the list of nominees will have fifty names. Out of these fifty, seven will be selected. These seven will be picked based on several different points.”

“Recommendations, right?” Clemens said, and Professor Lyuben nodded.

“How do the recommendations work?” Filippa asked.

“It’s a bit tricky,” Professor Lyuben admitted. “The information regarding it was updated a few days ago. Each nominee will have to look for people of significant standing in our society, and those witches or wizards will need to send the Headmaster a message by the end of May. However, what matters more than these recommendations are the grades of the nominees and the individual assessments done by their teachers.”

“So, if someone doesn’t manage to get any big shot to nominate him or her,” Filippa said, “they might get picked anyway?”

“Yes,” Professor Lyuben said. “It’s improbable, but not impossible. On the sixteenth of May there will be an info session for the applicants – do not miss it. Information on study schedules and accommodations will be given, and several other important issues will be cleared then as well. Not to mention that the info session might very well end up being your only chance to ask questions about the Tournament.”

“Sir, when will we know who have been chosen?” Heidi asked, and Harry could see her hand resting on Nikolai’s. She was, maybe for a good reason, rather worried about her friend.

“At the final feast, right before you start your summer break,” Professor Lyuben replied. “The selected seven will be revealed, and a few days after that they will be contacted by the Headmaster. This will give them the chance to train and prepare during the summer.”

The whole summer time to train. If Harry asked, would James help him? Would—

 _‘No,’_  Harry thought, barely managing to not scowl _. ‘I won’t count on James for anything.’_  Could he count on Sirius, though? Harry hadn’t seen his godfather in quite a while, and more often than not he felt as if he didn’t have him at all. Harry felt guilty for feeling disappointed – Sirius was a high-ranked Death Eater, surely he had far more important things to do than the check on _Harry_.

Suddenly, Harry thought of Tom.

Would he help, really? He hadn’t seemed particularly reluctant to spend time with Harry, and maybe if Harry could offer him something in return – or just leave it all as a pending favour – he could ask for some tips from Tom? Would it work? Would the Dark Lord be willing to offer him some advice?

Knowing Tom, he would agree to a deal if he had something significant to gain from it, but for the life of him Harry couldn’t recall anything he could do for the man in return.

“It is advisable,” Professor Lyuben said, “that those who wish to participate should clear it with me first. You nine are, without a doubt, brilliant students. But not all of you are fit for this – not by a long shot. My evaluation will not aid nor hinder your chances to be selected, and it is not mandatory. Simply, as I said, advisable.”

*

Weeks passed. Thoughts of the tournament alternated between dreams of grandeur and nightmares of grisly ends. Harry knew that every serious nominee would use the upcoming Easter break for intensive training. He wished he could, too, but the chances of James teaching him anything at all were non-existent.

“You could come with me,” Björn offered the day before the weeklong Easter break was to start. “You’ve never been to Stockholm, have you?”

“No,” Harry admitted, not looking up from the small bag he was packing. “But I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll go home and—”

“Train on your own?”

“There are advantages in training alone.”

Björn sighed and flopped down on Harry’s bed, clearly displeased. “I don’t like it when you do this,” he said, and it was the completely serious tone of his voice rather than his words that made Harry stop what he was doing and turn to look at him.

“Do what?” the boy asked, feeling wary all of a sudden.

“Isolate yourself because you’re so afraid of being a burden,” Björn said. “I’ m pretty sure that Truls would drag you with him if his family was a little bit less freaky.” Harry looked surprised.

“You’ve met his family?”

“You’d be surprised by how small the Swedish magical community is,” Björn revealed. “I’ve bumped into his sister twice, and I’ve heard a lot of stuff about the rest of them. It’s good that he has you in his life, you know, or else he’d end up like them. Proof that kids aren’t always like their parents.”

“I should hope not,” Harry said, thinking of James. Where was he, anyway? What was he doing? Drinking? Fighting? Harry didn’t know which one was the more preferable option – he wished it’d be neither. “Anyway, I’ll probably just drop by home quickly and then come back here. I’ll be fine.”

“My older brother used to say that all the time,” Björn said, a sudden strange smile on his face. “He kept telling everyone who bothered to ask that he was fine. Are you fine? Yes, I’m fine. Are you okay? Yes, I’m okay. I guess it wasn’t until he killed himself that we figured that maybe we’ve been asking the wrong questions all this time.”

“Do you mean anything specific by that?” Harry wanted to know, and the other boy smiled a little bit. He felt shaken by Björn’s words, but didn’t know how to react.

“You look stressed. Often you look like you’re… not happy.”

“I’m not  _unhappy_.”

“Well no, but you’re not  _happy_  either. And I’m not trying to pry or anything, believe me. I know you, and I know that you’re not the kind of guy who’ll feel stressed by small things. And  _that’s_  what worries me.”

 _‘Maybe I should have stuck to talking about going home,’_  Harry thought, unsure about how to proceed with the conversation. “Björn—”

“I was at the library the other day,” the boy continued. “I was doing some research on a bet I wanted to win, and needed to take a look at the librarian’s papers. Did you know they keep records of who borrows what?”

“No, I—”

“That’s not all, though. There are select books that are red-marked, and if a student borrows more than a dozen of those books, their name will be moved to a different list. Nothing would be done, of course, because  _those_  lists are rarely checked, but just having a name listed there can be… dangerous.” Björn’s smile had vanished, and Harry felt that his heart was beating way too fast, way too heavily.

 “Your name was there,” Björn said, and Harry wasn’t surprised. “Since you started attending Durmstrang, you’ve borrowed an alarming number of books that are about politics, history, and who knows what else.”

“I’m curious,” Harry told him, knowing that the other boy would know it’s an excuse.

“I reset your account and got you off the list,” Björn said easily, as if he hadn’t just saved Harry from potential future trouble. “But the thing is, Harry, that it got me  _thinking_.”

“Serious thoughts?” Harry asked nervously, and the other boy snorted.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think it’s something huge,” Björn said. “It’s not just about the books you borrowed, but just generally everything you’ve done and said up until now. Words that never made sense, behaviour that was just a bit too…  _something else_. You don’t seem like an ambitious guy, but you are, aren’t you? And what you’re planning right now… it’s bigger than us, bigger than Durmstang, even.”

“Those are quite the conclusions you’re jumping to.”

“They are, and maybe I’m wrong. But I’m not going to lie, Harry.  _I trust you_. Whatever you’re planning to do, I trust that it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if you’ll succeed, and I know that  _you_  don’t trust  _me_ , but I look at you and see someone I can actually trust with taking the lead. I want you to succeed, and you  _can’t_  if you get trapped into the isolating image of being always fine.”

“What do—”

“Nobody,” Björn said, coming to stand right in front of Harry. “Nobody is always fine. We’re human. We need to sometimes be able to sit down and admit that we’re not fine. If you don’t do that, if you keep piling on the stress while pretending to be fine, at some point you’ll get to a point you lose control at. A point where you end up making more and more mistakes, lose perspective and lose sight of your goal.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Harry asked, wary and even more worried than before. “Did something happen?”

“Not yet,” Björn replied, shaking his head. “But if I’m not the Champion, I’ll be betting on you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that it’s a tad bit exhausting to try and follow your train of thoughts?” Harry sighed, and moved to sit down. Björn looked at him for a few moments silently, before shrugging.

“We’re not ordinary people, Harry,” the boy said with a grin. “Or else we wouldn’t be here. I think that means that maybe we’re meant for more than what ordinary people have planned for us.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, and though it was perhaps arrogant of him – he couldn’t help but agree, to some level. “And I’m not saying that the tournament and my…  _plans_  are not connected. I’m just surprised by you noticing and the way you’re reacting to it.”

“It feels weird to you because you keep thinking that you’re too insignificant to be able to achieve greatness,” Björn told him. “I’m not hindered by that kind of worries. The others think I’m kidding when I say that I want to be rich beyond reality. The reason why it’s _me_ who will achieve that, and not them, is because I’m the one who believes in that whereas they keep telling themselves and everyone else that it’s impossible.”

“So you’re telling me to go for my goals with reckless abandon,” Harry summed up, not entirely disliking the idea.

“Not _recklessly_ ,” Björn said, “but yeah, pretty much. I have to go now to finish packing, but think about it, Harry, okay?”

“I will,” Harry promised. He’d have a whole week of free time to think about what Björn had said. After all, Easter would be a very lonely holiday for him.

The next morning, he woke up to the sound of an owl hooting outside his window.

*

“He’s unlikely to respond before noon,” Tom said, eyeing the pile of papers on his desk. “I could read through at least one third of this pile before then.”

 _“Are you sure that he’ll respond at all?”_  Nagini hissed, and the Dark Lord nodded.

“I took a look at those who signed up to be nominated; his name is on the list. I’ll offer to not only make sure that he’ll be representing Durmstrang, but I’ll also train him… in exchange for a favour that in comparison is not too much for him at all.”

_“Which is?”_

“I told you a while ago, didn’t I? It’d be useful if he could ask the dead what killed them; if there’s a spy in the ranks, for example. He can do that for me.”

_“Is that what you put in the message you sent him?”_

“No,” Tom said. “That was an invitation to spend Easter with me. If he accepts I’ll take us to the hideout in Malta.”

 _“Name tells me nothing,”_  Nagini said. _“Don’t mistake that for a request to elaborate.”_

“I can teach him some tricks there as soon as he finds out the information I need. He’s a smart kid, he’ll know that he has to get someone to teach him, or he’d be the first to lose.”

_“He’s a bad duellist?”_

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. He’s a third year student, there’s no way he could defeat, say, a seventh year student. Even if said seventh year student came from Hogwarts. It’s not like he can afford to turn me down. Who else does he have?”

Who else  _does_  he have?

The question slipped out of Tom’s mouth, startling him. He had intended it as a mocking note, a question that simply puts emphasis on how much power Tom has over Harry. Instead, it left him feeling slightly hollow. It’d be useful, of course, that there not be a parent or a parental figure to keep tabs on Harry, but it also made it glaringly obvious how lonely the boy’s life truly was.

Tom wasn’t feeling  _sorry_  for the boy – rather, he was annoyed on his behalf. Then again, to think positively, this way if Harry died, nobody would go looking for him. It’d be easy to send a message to Durmstrang and cover the tracks from there. If James Potter managed to pull himself up from the bottom of a bottle long enough to ask about his son, well, murder had always been Tom’s preferred way of dealing with problems.

 _“What will you teach him?”_  Nagini asked suddenly.  _“Spells?”_

“Tricks,” Tom replied. “Nothing he can actually use against  _me_. Thinking outside the box, so to say. A man can keep his balance while dodging spells, but such feat is impossible if you blow up the ground he’s standing on.”

 _“Careful, or your boy will blow up the ground_ you’re _standing on.”_

“No,” Tom said, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, Nagini. The moment that boy actually does something that could be a gesture against me, I’ll deal with him.”

_“How?”_

“I have it sorted out,” Tom assured his pet with a smug smirk, “a creative and permanent solution.”

*

> _“Pack the essentials for a week-long holiday. You’ll be spending Easter with me. This letter is a portkey that will bring you to me at six in the evening, today. Be ready.”_

Harry was sitting on his bed, fully dressed with a bag on his lap and the letter in his hand. What on earth had prompted Tom to send him this sort of a message? Why did the Dark Lord want to meet him  _now_? Did this have anything to do with the Triwizard Tournament?

 _‘Well, a week-long break is plenty of time,’_  Harry thought _. ‘Question remains, though: plenty of time for what? I should probably drop the letter and pretend I never got it.’_  That, of course, would piss off the Dark Lord and Harry really didn’t want to do that anytime soon.

Maybe he could ask the man to teach him a spell or two?

Knowing him, though, he’ll ask for something in return.


	25. Chapter 25

“Potter,” was the first word Tom said to him when he arrived. And then, right after: “Harry.”

“Hi,” Harry said, looking at the room he was in – a surprisingly cosy living room with large windows, wooden walls, and thick, soft carpets on the floor. One of the windows was slightly open, letting in a refreshing breeze. “Where are we?” This was  _nothing_  like the cold and dark castle of gloom that Harry had pictured in his head.

“One of my houses,” Tom replied, not caring to elaborate. The man narrowed his eyes suddenly, eyeing Harry suspiciously. “You’re… taller than the last time I saw you.”

“I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”

“Impressive,” Tom said, not impressed. Sweet Circe,  _fourteen_? By that age Tom had two murders under his belt. “Leave your bag on the floor – a house-elf will take it to the room you’ll be occupying this week. Sit down anywhere. Tea? Coffee?”

“Does this have anything to do with the Triwizard Tournament?” Harry wanted to know, sitting down on one of the soft chairs in the room. A house-elf appeared to set down a tray of tea and biscuits on the table, before grabbing Harry’s bag and disappearing with it.

“It could,” Tom replied, sitting down as well, and only then did Harry notice the giant snake peeking from a half-opened cabinet. “You need to be recommended by someone in order to become a potential champion. Do you have anyone you can count on to recommend you? Your father, perhaps?”

“No,” Harry replied, feeling foolish all of a sudden. He had been pretending to have a shot at being officially nominated without having a single guaranteed recommendation. The boy’s green eyes were fixed on Tom, trying to read the man’s thoughts somehow. He couldn’t. “No one.”

“Take something to eat or drink,” Tom said, waving towards the tray, and warily Harry did as told, trying to ignore the feeling of being stared at. “This is going to take a while, and you will think better if you’re not hungry.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, moving to pour himself a cup of tea. He didn’t take a biscuit.

“I will recommend you,” Tom said, “and I can guarantee that my recommendation will get you to Hogwarts after the summer. I’ll even teach you a trick or two – after all, if you do get selected, I wouldn’t want you to embarrass me.”

“And in return?” Harry wanted to know, numerous possibilities running through his mind. “What could I offer you in return for all of that?”

 _‘Obedience would be a good start,’_  Tom thought, and attempted a comforting smile.

“What’s your face doing?” Harry asked, squinting at him. Tom rolled his eyes, ignoring the loudly expressed amusement from Nagini.

“Let’s talk about you first,” Tom replied. “You and your special ability… the one I discovered quite a while ago. I don’t forget things like these. What I want you to do first is to explain precisely what it is that you do, and then I will ask you to use your talent to do a small favour for me.”

 _‘Just one?’_ Nagini hissed, but was ignored. Instead, Tom continued:

“You will be safe, of course, no matter what.” No matter what,  _within reason_. “I won’t force you to do this.” Maybe.

“Can I think about it?” Harry said, and Tom’s smile was anything but pleasant.

“Explain your power to me first, and then I will tell you what I want,” the Dark Lord said. “And then you can go think about it for about ten seconds before you agree. Is that acceptable?”

“Apparently it has to be,” Harry replied, looking down at his almost empty cup of tea. He was clearly hesitant, and Tom knew that the boy wasn’t stupid enough to feel comfortable. “Sure.”

“Pretend I remember nothing from what you told me before,” Tom said. “What is it that you can do, and how can you do it? What are your limits?”

“Basically,” Harry started slowly, “there’s this… station. When people die, they go there for a while until they can move on.”

“A limbo, you mean?”

That term had never occurred to Harry, though it did seem to fit the train station  _perfectly_. “Precisely,” the boy said, nodding. “A limbo of sorts. It’s like a train station, and dead people come in, then they get into the trains and go to whatever afterlife they’re meant for.”

“How long do people stay in that… train station?”

“Most leave quickly, as soon as their trains come.”

“And the rest?”

“Some wait,” Harry said, thinking of Albus. “They wait for their loved ones, I guess.” Tom made a sound that was meant to perhaps encourage Harry to talk faster, but sounded more like a snigger.

“Nobody has tried to come back?” the Dark Lord wanted to know, and Harry frowned, thinking.

 “No,” the boy answered. “I don’t think that’s possible. I can do it just because I’m never really  _there_ , you know? I’m still solidly alive and anchored so that pulls me back. I don’t know if anyone has tried but I can’t imagine anyone succeeding.”

“What do you do there? Aside from speaking with dead people you shouldn’t be talking to.”  _Like my mother._

“Nothing,” Harry replied. “There really isn’t anything to do. I can’t board any of the trains. I tried once… after my mum died. But I was stopped.” Tom nodded, not bothering to come up with anything comforting to say about the boy’s mother’s death.

Tom watched Harry quietly for a few moments, before finally speaking.

“Someone inside my ranks is killing my generals one by one,” he said calmly, keeping a sharp eye on Harry’s reaction. The boy’s eyes widened and he sat straighter, a small frown appearing on his face.

“Your godfather is safe,” Tom assured him, pleased to have found yet another way to convince Harry to help him. “Though for how long, I cannot say. Several others have either been subjected to attempted assassinations, or simply found dead. No one has seen anything suspicious.”

“No one  _alive_ ,” Harry said immediately. Tom nodded, pleased and reluctantly impressed.

“What I want,” Tom told him, “is for you to go to this ‘limbo,’ look for the ones who died, and find out what happened. In return I will not only make sure that you will be one of the chosen nominees, but I will also help you prepare for the tournament. Can you do that?”

“In theory, yeah,” Harry admitted. “But the train station… it’s incredibly crowded. I’ll need to know exactly who I’m looking for, of course, and I’ll have to go there more than once. How long ago did they die? People don’t stay there for long.”

“Next time someone dies, I’ll tell you right away,” Tom promised, unable to stop a small smirk from appearing. Harry’s disapproving expression only made the Dark Lord more amused.

“I have a quick meeting to attend,” he then said, standing up. “In your room – Nagini will take you there – you will find a stack of files. They have all the information you’ll need to know about the assassinated generals. Work hard, my pet will keep you company.”

 _‘It’s cute how you still think that I’m the pet in this partnership,’_ Nagini hissed. Harry eyed the giant snake with a considerable amount of apprehension.

“She gets nervous easily,” Tom lied with a small grin on his face. “So don’t do anything unpredictable. And if she eats a house-elf, pretend you’ve seen nothing. Nagini doesn’t like being judged.”

*

Being called back to the war front for a mission once again was nothing but a relief to James. Anything would be better than the empty hours that filled his days and left the taste of firewhisky ingrained in his mouth. Here, despite the horrors of war, James could at least focus on something else: survival.

Though why he bothered, James wasn’t sure. Most of the time survival didn’t seem worth the effort.

“James,” a familiar, irritating voice said. James knew before he turned around that Peter would be there, watching him with his watery blue eyes. As unpleasant as he found the sight of the grey, dying trees and masked Death Eaters, the sight of Peter Pettigrew remained even less preferable.

“What do you want,” James said, not managing to sound quite as annoyed as he felt. Somehow even expressing his feelings seemed to require so much energy and effort lately.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Peter said, hurrying to walk by James’s side. “Considering what’s going on with your son.”

“Harry?” James stopped abruptly, and turned to grab the shorter man’s collar. “What the hell are you talking about? I know he’s alright, he’s safe. Else the school would have contacted me—”

“Oh, he  _is_  safe,” Peter assured him quickly, struggling to make James let go of him. “ _For now_.”

“I really don’t have the patience to play mind games with you,” James said angrily. “How do you even know about what Harry’s doing?  _I_ don’t know what he’s doing, and I’m his father.”

“Not a very good one, though,” Peter said, his words leaving James breathless for a second. He then let go of the shorter Death Eater, and turned away. Without a word, James returned to marching quietly.

“You’ve heard of the Triwizard Tournament, I believe?” Peter asked, hurrying after the man. “It’s a dangerous contest where champions from different school compete for glory and fortune.”

“What does that have to do with Harry?” James asked, dreading the answer, knowing already what it would be. “Harry doesn’t want glory or fortune.”

“Maybe not fortune,” Peter said. “But to a boy who is practically parentless and hasn’t been acknowledged by the people he used to look up to, glory matters.”

 _‘Well,’_  James thought _, ‘if this bastard isn’t quite good at twisting the knife in sore wounds._ ’ “Harry wouldn’t.”

“Harry has,” Peter said bluntly. “I know a teacher who works at Durmstrang – I know it’s the truth.”

James fell silent again, walking through the mud and stepping over the scattered bones and body parts, thinking of what he had just heard.  _If_ Peter was right – and James didn’t  _want_  to believe him – then Harry was in danger. He’d be getting hurt, and the mere _thought_ of that made James panic.

Harry could be getting hurt seriously, _permanently_. Physically or mentally. Every fiber of his being went against allowing his son to take the risk of participating in this tournament. Could he stop Harry from competing, though? He should ask for details, but Peter was the only person who’d know and was nearby.

“You can’t stop him,” Peter answered. “It’s magically binding.”

“Then I can help him,” James decided, his heart beating heavily in his chest. Perhaps this would be the chance he had wanted – the opportunity to fix what had gone wrong between him and Harry. “I could train him. Make sure that he’ll know how to defend himself.”

“That sounds great,” Peter said, the tone of his voice implying the opposite. “But you do realize the risks?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to believe me, of course, but do think of what I’m about to tell you carefully,” Peter continued. “If you go there and help him now, what will he think? That you didn’t deem him worth your time until he started seeking fame and glory?”

“That’s— He wouldn’t think that!” James exclaimed. “My son knows I love him—”

“I’m sure he does,” Peter said calmly. “But if anything goes wrong now, if you go to him and mess up, it will destroy him. Can you honestly say that you can just go there, fix everything, and save the day, James? Can you say that, with  _your_  track record?”

The words were cruel, and yet James couldn’t help but believe them. He had let Harry down so much already; he didn’t want to become a burden to his son. On the other hand he just couldn’t do _nothing_ , now could he? He couldn’t just stand aside and let Harry take part in a dangerous tournament without even trying to help him!

“I know you want to be of use to him,” Peter said. “But by going to him you will destroy whatever routine he has. He won’t be able to concentrate because he’ll be too focused on saving  _you_  from the bottle. You’ll be putting his wellbeing at risk just to alleviate your guilt. You want to help him, James, but you can’t do that by being there with him. Stay out of his life, my friend. The most helpful thing you can do for him is to let him go for good. Don’t pull him down with you.”

“He’s my son,” James insisted, guilt and insecurity making his words hollow and full of doubt. “He wouldn’t… He couldn’t want me there?”

“James,” Peter sighed, sounding sorry. “Look at yourself. Are you a father anyone would want to have?”

*

“My lord,” Thorfinn Rowle said, kneeling in front of the Dark Lord. “Our prison in Turin was attacked. Several prisoners managed to escape.”

“Odd, isn’t it,” Tom drawled, “how a few short days ago you were assuring me that the situation in Italy is under control. And now, turns out,  _it wasn’t_.”

“M-my lord—”

“ _Crucio_.” Somehow though, even Rowle’s pain didn’t make Tom feel any better. His prison in Turin had been one of the most guarded, and yet the Rebels had managed to break in? This wasn’t a matter of a simple mission gone wrong anymore – this was far more serious.

“I hope,” Tom said, lifting the curse, “that you had the sense to bring proper reports on what happened with you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rowle wheezed, trying to subdue the shaking of his body. “I have—”

“Put them on the table and leave,” Tom ordered, not in the mood for putting up with unnecessary chatter. “And tell all units to alert me immediately if anyone of significance is killed. Go back to Turin and investigate; make sure that every prisoner who hasn’t managed to escape is killed. Then hunt for the fugitives. Retrieve them alive if you can, but if that’s not possible just kill them.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rowle said, and after another bow that made him nearly topple over, he left as fast as his shaking limbs could carry him. Tom scowled, reaching for the reports Rowle had given him. How on earth had the Rebels managed to pull _that_ off? It wasn’t a lucky shot, it couldn’t be. Whoever was killing his generals within his ranks was also very likely tangled up in this one.

Browsing through the quickly written reports, Tom couldn’t help but feel like there was something amiss in the whole operation. Another report, written by Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs had explained some parts of how the attack and the following escape had happened, and there was something almost familiar in the tactic used.

 _‘This feels like something I should remember,’_  Tom thought, sighing. _‘Have I seen this tactic used before? I believe so… but where? When? By whom?’_  The Rebels had managed to blow up both of the prison’s entrances to keep the guards busy. The anti-apparation wards had held, and the magic-limiting wards had been untouched as well. Yet the few guards that had not rushed to the entrances of the prison had claimed that the hallways had been filled with fog to an alarming degree.

No spells. Someone must have used smoke bombs. This wasn’t a small thing; the Rebels hadn’t been aiming for subtlety of any kind. The iron bars of the fugitives’ cells had been opened with no signs of force – someone had gotten their hands on a key or found a way to fool the magic-limiting wards. Some of the escaped prisoners had been too wounded to move, most of them barely conscious. They must have been carried out.

It wasn’t a sophisticated plan, and yet it had been successful. The familiarity of the whole operation bothered Tom greatly, and the more time he spent in his office trying to figure it out, the more annoyed he became. In the end he decided to return back to the cottage where Harry and Nagini were.

Returning somewhere, knowing that someone was inside waiting for you, was perhaps one of the oddest feelings Tom had ever experienced. He wasn’t used to it – doubted that he ever would – and couldn’t help but feel slightly bitter about it. And though Harry wasn’t making any noise, the cottage didn’t feel as quiet as it had before.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” Tom asked, stopping in front of the open doorway of the room that Harry was occupying. The boy shook his head, looking up from the papers in front of him. He stared at Tom for a few moments and then frowned.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“It doesn’t have to concern me,” Harry said, pushing the papers aside. “It sometimes helps to just talk about your problems.”

“What are you doing?” Tom asked, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying to do that whole supportive and comforting song and dance?” Harry eyed him blankly for a moment, before the boy sighed and shook his head.

“Maybe.”

“Stop. I don’t do those emotional connections.”

“You did when you hugged me when my mother died.”

“Hold up,” Tom said, “firstly: I didn’t  _hug_  you. Secondly: even  _if_  I did hug you, it wasn’t… whatever you’re trying to do now.”

“Being emotionally supportive really makes you uncomfortable,” Harry said, clearly fascinated. “And you _did_ hug me. I was crying on you and you let it happen.”

 _‘Ooooo,’_ Nagini hissed, and Tom felt as if, had the snake been able to, she would have whistled.

“If you ever say that again,” the Dark Lord said, “I will make sure you spend the rest of your short life crying.”

“Of course you will,” Harry sighed, and much to Tom’s horror he realized that the boy sounded  _fond_  rather than afraid.

*

_Dear Luna,_

_It has been quite a while since I wrote to you, and I’m sorry about that. I truly am. Life has kept me busy, like it tends to do these days. And while I wish I could say that this letter has no other purpose but to be a casual reminder of your friend abroad, I’m afraid the matter isn’t quite so pleasant._

_I know that your silence is guaranteed, and so I won’t ask for it, my friend. Prying eyes are keen, however, and it’d put my mind at ease to know that you have destroyed this letter after reading it._

_After the summer, a Triwizard Tournament will be held at Hogwarts. There is a chance that I will be participating, which would land me there for the school year. I’ve heard plenty of the four Houses there at Hogwarts, but I’d like to know more of the people who matter. The people I need to keep an eye on._

_Have there been any significant conflicts between the Houses? Are there some unwritten rules I need to know? What about the staff? Ron has complained about several staff members, but as you perhaps know, his word isn’t particularly reliable in such matters – though a good guy, Ron’s quite biased. Then again, most of us are._

_I’m currently preparing for the tournament with an acquaintance of mine. He has kindly offered to help me, and with no one else available I saw it necessary to accept his offer. I’m worried, though, for so many reasons. You can possibly guess why – all the stress, all the complications in my life right now. I hope you’re having a better time than I am._

_How is Draco, do you know? I suppose that aside from you and Ron, he’s the only other person I may end up spending time with during my stay at Hogwarts, unless one of my friends here from Durmstrang is sent with me._

_Most importantly: how are you? How have your days been? I miss you terribly and I can’t wait to see you again. One of the things I’m definitely looking forward to after the summer is spending more time with you._

_Yours truly,_

_Harry_

*

“We could house the Beauxbatons students with the Ravenclaws,” Sirius said, walking through one of the hallways of Hogwarts. Frederick Yaxley, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, sighed tiredly and nodded. “Durmstrang students can be comfortable with the Gryffindors. Whatcha say, Fred?”

“I say, don’t call me Fred,” Yaxley snapped. “We’re not putting students from Durmstrang with _Gryffindors_ , Black. We can give them their own quarters.”

“Then we will have to arrange for the Beauxbatons students to have their own quarters as well. Merlin knows this place is big enough.”

“Have you confirmed the judges yet?”

“Of course,” Sirius said. “You, Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, the headmistress of Beauxbatons will be there of course. Then Araminta Meliflua - you know her, she’s on the school board – and Bellatrix somehow muscled her way in as well. I really can’t wait to see who the champions will be. You guys are lucky you don’t have to pick nominees like the other schools. They— oh  _ho_ , Snivellus!”

“Circe, no,” Yaxley groaned, noticing the Potions Master heading towards them. “Black, stop provoking him, he can poison us both whenever he wants to. Don’t give him a reason to do it.”

“Black,” Severus Snape said, his tone somehow turning a name into an insult. “Yaxley.”

 _‘It’s completely normal to feel nervous around him,’_  Yaxley reminded himself. _‘It doesn’t make me any less of a man. I wasn’t in Gryffindor – for a very good reason.’_ “Snape! How do you do?”

“How do you do,  _really_?” Sirius sniggered. “Old Fred and I were talking about the Triwizard Tournament.”

“The headmaster doesn’t seem to appreciate being called old,” Snape said, eyeing Yaxley’s face with no small amount of contempt.

“He just doesn’t like the name Fred,” Sirius said dismissively. “As wonderful as the name is, it pales in comparison to Sniv—”

“You can hex him into silence,” Snape told Yaxley. “It doesn’t make him a better person, but it does make him slightly more tolerable. The less conscious he is, the better. The more  _permanent_  the lack of consciousness is—”

“What dragged you out of the dungeons, anyway?” Sirius asked. “Nobody is being sacrificed to ancient gods at the moment. We’re merely discussing the Triwizard Tournament that will take place here after the summer. More teenagers to brighten up your day, Snivellus!”

“You were telling me,” Yaxley hurried to say, trying to make the atmosphere slightly less murderous. “About the nominees from other schools?”

“Well, nobody knows who will be chosen yet,” Sirius said. “But Hogwarts doesn’t have to worry about that. My godson will—”

“You’re _not_ letting him take part in the tournament,” Snape said, the expression on his face changing from bored to appalled. “Lily’s son is not even _fourteen_  yet.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sirius claimed. He had his own concerns, definitely. He had entertained the thought of talking with Harry about it; however, hearing Snape claim that Harry wouldn’t be fit for the tournament… well, that was just not acceptable. “He’s a talented fellow.”

“It’s not a question of how talented he is,” Snape hissed, glaring at the other wizard. “You will not be pitching a child so young against _seventh year students_.”

“I didn’t know you cared about his safety.”

“I don’t, but I foolishly thought that you do.”

“Harry will be just fine,” Sirius insisted. “Besides, who knows, he might not be selected as the competing champion anyway!”

“How can you be so irresponsible?” Snape sneered, shaking his head. “Aren’t you  _tired_  of being the reason for the deaths of so many—”

“ _Baubillious_!”

“ _Protego_!”

“Not in the hallway!” Yaxley shrieked, hastily backing away from the two wizards. “Bloody hell—  _Stupefy_!  _Petrificus Totalus_! Stop destroying my school! Black, I swear to Circe—”

*

“The portkey will take you back to Durmstrang at five,” Tom said, handing Harry a small stone. “Carry on with your studies and whatever else you usually do at school. Once your summer holiday begins, I’ll contact you.”

“All right.”

“Go to that train station of yours regularly, try to find the people I assigned for you. Whenever a fresh corpse turns up, I’ll send you the head.”

“A picture will be good enough, thanks,” Harry said. “Don’t send me a head. If you send me a severed one I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Tom asked. “Stare at me disapprovingly? You’re an embarrassment—”

“I can put the memory of you hugging me in a pensieve,” Harry said. “And show it to you every time we meet.”

“I _despise_ you.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Focus more on your studies, and less on having feelings,” Tom told him. “Think of the tournament. You’ll be going there to _win_ , not just to survive. The list of nominees will be out in a few weeks. I’ll send my recommendation mid-May.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t have known what to do without you.”

“You and the rest of the world.”

“Exaggeration is a nasty habit to get into.”

“It’s the simple truth,” Tom said, watching Harry read through the notes he had scribbled down earlier. “What do you do when you think you’ve forgotten something, and you really should be remembering it?”

“What?” Harry asked with a confused frown, looking up at Tom. “Say that again, using different words, because none of that made any sense.”

“It’s because you’re not as smart as I am,” Tom told him, and sighed heavily. “Let’s assume, hypothetically, that the Rebels did something.”

“Hypothetically. Uh-huh.”

“And their method of operation is very, _very_ familiar.”

“But you can’t figure out why it’s familiar? Maybe it happened before and you just forgot,” Harry guessed. “Knowing how your memory works, it’s likely that you’ve somehow  _deliberately_  made yourself forget it.”

“And why would I—”

“Considering your self-esteem issues—”

“I don’t  _have_  self-esteem issues!” Tom said, clearly appalled at the mere thought of that.

“I’m pretty sure that having too much of it is also an issue,” Harry told him. “Anyway, taking into account your arrogance and inflated sense of self-importance—”

“Anyone else would be bleeding through their pores for that,  _Potter_.”

“—it would make sense if you got your ass kicked previously the same way. Just think of all the wizards and witches who managed to pull one over you during the past few decades.”

Tom scowled, eyeing Harry with a sneer on his face. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy’s logic did somehow make sense to him.

“Consider it an exercise in humility,” Harry said gently, reaching for his jacket and preparing to leave for Durmstrang. “You need plenty of those.”

“Get out,” Tom huffed. “Go annoy someone else. Live in the library and  _study_.”

*

And study Harry did.

A few weeks after returning from the Easter break, Harry and all of his classmates were trying to simultaneously study, prepare for the rapidly approaching exams, train, and find time to sleep. The summer break would start in a month, and Harry was certain that he wasn’t the only one waiting eagerly for it.

The tournament-related info session Professor Lyuben had mentioned was held on the sixteenth of May, an hour after dinner. Harry had insisted on dropping by the library to return a few books before it, and the others had promised to save him a seat. On his way to the classroom where the info session would be held, he bumped into Viktor Krum.

“Hi,” Harry said, smiling happily. “How’s our resident Quidditch star?” Krum flushed red and seemed to suddenly find the floor interesting.

“Hello Harry,” he said. He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. It was quite endearing and Harry found himself smiling again. “Are you heading over to hear about the Triwizard Tournament as well?”

“Yeah. Though the tournament isn’t the only big event I’m interested in. The Quidditch World Cup, you know? I heard you’ll be playing.”

“Yes,” Krum said. “The Bulgarian National Quidditch Team has… accepted me. We hope to make it to the final round this year. Our team has been successful in its other matches.”

“I hope you guys will get to the final,” Harry agreed. “My friends and I already got the tickets to watch it. It’s in England this year and it’d be _amazing_ to watch you play.”

“Uh, I,” Krum stammered, his face becoming even redder. The older boy seemed torn between disappointment and relief when they finally entered the classroom where the info session was held.

“It was nice to talk with you,” Krum said. “I will… see you again?”

“Sure,” Harry promised with an easy smile, and moved to sit between Truls and Björn. Clemens was sitting right in front of Harry, and turned slightly to greet the boy.

“Think Hogwarts is going to be fun?” he whispered, and Harry grinned.

“I sure hope so.”

“It’d be brilliant to go together,” Truls said. “Though the odds of that happening are quite low.”

“Want to bet on that?” Björn asked, just as Headmaster Karkaroff entered the classroom with a few other professors in tow. The man hadn’t changed at all from when Harry had first seen him, nearly three years ago. The students fell silent right away, and nervously waited for the Headmaster to begin speaking.

“I’m glad to see so many of you here,” the Headmaster said. “So many talents, eagerly wishing to represent our school in this international tournament.”

 _‘I wonder how many really care about the school,’_  Harry thought _, ‘and how many are doing it for personal gain.’_ He knew that  _he_  belonged to the latter group, and felt slightly guilty about it.

“From all the people who applied,” Headmaster Karkaroff started, “seven will be chosen. The names of these seven will be revealed in a month at the final feast. During the week that follows the end of the school year, these seven will receive an envelope with several documents, all of which are of importance. The first thing you do once receiving this envelope is to look for the confirmation form, fill it, and send it to me personally.”

_‘I hope I won’t need James’s signature for that one. I wonder if Tom can help me with that, somehow…’_

“You will be given your customized study schedules and your English language skills will be tested. You will go through a few physical and psychological evaluations. Your study schedules will also be given to you, and I suggest you do quite a bit of pre-reading to ensure that you won’t be falling behind. You will, after all, represent the whole school out there.

You will attend some of the classes with the students of Hogwarts – classes such as Potions and Transfiguration – while the rest will be taught to you by your Durmstrang Professors. Our superior standards will not be made easier for you, regardless of the circumstances.”

_‘Thank you for the pressure.’_

“Hogwarts has offered our representatives private quarters, so you needn’t worry about the lodgings. I, your headmaster, will accompany the selected students to Hogwarts along with Professors Heiner and Wieland. Deputy Headmaster, Professor Thomas Lyuben, will be overseeing the school in my absence.”

_‘Pity… I prefer dealing with Professor Lyuben rather than anyone else.’_

“This is an opportunity,” Headmaster Karkaroff said. “This is your time to shine. Should you be so lucky as to be chosen – not only to be part of the envoy, but as the Durmstrang Champion – you’ll be given an opportunity everyone else has been deprived of. Show us – show _everyone_ – that you are worthy of this chance.”

*

_Dear Harry,_

_The possibility of you coming to Hogwarts for a full year makes me very happy. There is so much you haven’t seen yet – I know that you will find the Hogwarts Library to be particularly enjoyable. I don’t know what Durmstrang is like, obviously, but we often get muffins during breakfast here. If that isn’t done in your school, you will have something to look forward to._

_I'm sure that you're well aware of the friendly rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Your friend Draco Malfoy is one of the biggest contributors to that rivalry, though he has calmed down significantly since last year. These days the only time when the two Houses are openly hostile to one another is directly tied to whether or not there’s a Quidditch match happening soon._

_Your friend Professor Lockhart has made quite an impression on everyone in the school. He’s popular, and many students are happy to have him. Of course he has expressed how much happier he’d be if he could have Mr. Crouch Junior instead, but as per your advice, I have elected to not listen when he starts singing._

_Nobody here has heard of this tournament you mentioned. Gossip spreads quickly here at Hogwarts, and I’m sure that Ginny would have told me something if she had heard anything…_

*

“Finally,” Harry huffed, shrinking his trunk and putting it into his pocket. “I’m done.”

“About time,” Truls said with a grin. “How come you left your packing until the last minute this time, anyway? Usually you’re the first one done.”

“I don’t know! It just happened. Probably your fault, somehow.”

“Blaming the innocent, Potter? Shame on you!”

“Innocent, my arse,” Harry grinned. “We probably should get going, though. Dinner has probably started already and I don’t trust the others to actually put anything aside for us. I wouldn’t put it past Björn and Clemens to try and eat as much as they could, just to not leave us anything. You know what their understanding of pranks is. Not very funny.” 

“Preach,” Truls agreed. “Say, would you like to meet a few days  _before_  the World Cup final? I think it’d be great to just, you know, spend time together.”

“Merlin, _yes_ ,” Harry said readily. “I feel like for the past few  _months_  I’ve barely seen you. Do you have anything planned for the beginning of the break?”

“Not really,” Truls admitted. “I think I’m going to spend the next two weeks sleeping and eating. Unless I get picked for the Tournament, of course. And you?”

“Probably the same. I’m pretty nervous about who will get picked today, though. Has Björn said anything about the betting pool he has going?”

“Anthony Lestrange seems to be a favourite, but you knew that already.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, thinking of the older British boy. He had never directly interacted with Lestrange, and didn’t particularly feel the need to do so either. From what Harry had seen, the other boy was arrogant, often to the point of being outright rude. “I’m just kind of… worried about the pressure.”

“I know what you mean,” Truls said. “Soon we’ll find out, though.”

“Hi guys,” Filippa said cheerfully, waving them closer. The girl already had some potato salad on her plate, and only then did Harry realize how hungry he was.

“Feels like I haven’t eaten all day,” the boy said, sitting down and pulling Truls to sit next to him. “Björn, I don’t think that that tray of spring rolls has your name on it.”

“It does!” the redhead claimed, pulling the mountain of spring rolls closer. “It’s mine! All mine!”

“Guys, shut up,” Heidi sighed, rolling her eyes. “Just eat and let’s hope that Headmaster Karkaroff will soon tell us who will be going to Hogwarts after the summer. This is so exciting!”

“What if Nikolai goes and you don’t?” Clemens asked. “Will you cry?”

“What if Harry goes and you don’t?” Heidi snapped back. “Will  _you_  cry?”

“Why would he?” Harry wanted to know. “Honestly, you guys are so strange sometimes.”

“Hearing that from  _you_  is so ironic,” Heidi said, but her smile took the edge off the words. “By the way, when are we going to meet this summer? I think we should have some specific meeting place before we go to the Quidditch Cup final.”

“I agree,” Petronella said, pushing her bowl of soup aside. “We should decide where we’re going to meet.”

“If Harry’s okay with it, we can meet at his place around noon on that day,” Clemens suggested. “My uncle can make a portkey that will take us to where the match will be held.”

“I’m cool with that,” Filippa said, nodding, and none of the others showed any signs of disagreement.

“Alright,” Harry said, smiling. With any luck, his dad wouldn’t be home on that day anyway. “Twenty-second of August. Come whenever, but not before nine o’clock please.”

“Like most of us could wake up that early anyway,” Heidi said. “Noon is good. I’ll get myself there, then.”

Eventually, once the students had finally finished their dinner and the food had vanished from the tables, Headmaster Karkaroff stood up. As he was in the habit of doing, he began a rather long-winded speech, reminding the students of their importance, reputation, and responsibilities. Usually the students would have zoned out by the end of it, however this year each person was listening avidly.

The Headmaster fell silent for a moment, eyeing the students, before a rolled piece of parchment began levitating in front of him. Harry took in a deep breath, feeling nervous. Truls’s hand found his under the table, and he clutched his friend’s fingers tightly between his own.

 _‘Here goes,’_  Harry thought.

“I know we all have been waiting for this,” Karkaroff said. “Amongst numerous applicants, seven were selected based on their grades and the recommendations we received during the past month. The students whose names I will mention shortly will be contacted later on by me personally. Nothing is expected of you until then.”

The wizard then reached for the rolled piece of parchment to open it. Harry was certain that never before had the whole student body been so quiet – not even during the exams. The faint rustle of the paper was the only sound that could be heard, and somehow rolling the parchment open seemed to take forever. Finally though, Karkaroff was ready to read it.

“The following students have been chosen to be part of the envoy that will go to Hogwarts next September,” he said, his voice loud and clear in the hall. “From the students who will be starting their seventh year next September: Ingrid Malte.”

 _‘Who?’_  Faint whispering had begun, and a tall girl with long blonde braids let out a loud gasp.

“From the students who will be starting their sixth year: Mette Erling, Viktor Krum, and Anthony Lestrange.”

 _‘Oh, Viktor will be going! Maybe I’ll get the chance to spend some more time with him there,’_ Harry thought, leaning against Truls. _‘Björn’s crush will be going. I didn’t know that she had even applied.’_

“From the students who will be starting their fifth year: Maria Rurik.”

“That leaves two,” Filippa hissed nervously. “ _Two left_.”

“From the students who will be starting their fourth year,” Karkaroff said, glancing up briefly. “Harry Potter and Truls Kettil.”

*

“Well, that’s yet another bloody year left behind,” Thomas Lyuben sighed. “What an end, though.”

“I expect we’re all equally baffled by the same thing,” Ulrich Dietmar, the professor of Dark Arts, said. “Who  _is_  Harry Potter, really? I thought he was practically a  _nobody_.”

“Obviously he’s not,” Karkaroff sneered, “if the Dark Lord himself recommended him. I just cannot figure out how _that_ could have happened! I know the boy’s godfather – Sirius Black is part of the Inner Circle but he isn’t  _that_  important.”

“The boy doesn’t seem particularly impressive either,” Lyuben admitted. “He’s good, obviously, and doesn’t seem to struggle with his studies. But there are plenty of smarter students.  _Better_  students.”

“I suppose we simply have to trust the Dark Lord’s judgement,” Professor Elis said softly, with a humourless smile on his face. “He obviously knows something about the boy that we don’t.”

“What matters is whether or not his… whatever it is that has made him worth noticing, is important enough that  _we_  should be aware of it.”

“I say we don’t even look into it,” Lyuben said reluctantly, after a moment of contemplation. “If the Dark Lord knows, I’d rather not do anything that could accidentally bring his wrath upon us. For all we know he could have picked the boy at random.”

 _‘The thing is,’_  Karkaroff thought.  _‘The Dark Lord does nothing at random._ ’


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I mentioned on [tumblr](http://handsoffthegoodstuff.tumblr.com/), you have the option of checking the warnings at the end of the chapter (and get spoiled). U kno, the end notes.
> 
> Or you can just brave into it all and feel the full impact of what I’ve got in store for you.

It’s been raining for _three days_ , nearly nonstop. Three days, during which he hadn’t bothered to get in touch with anyone, focusing instead on the tournament, on Tom’s promise, and what he would have to do in return. He was worried – he couldn’t help but to be, considering how much could go wrong.

Being back in the Potter Manor with only a few house-elves to keep everything clean and running was lonely and he couldn’t shake off the feeling of being an intruder in his own home. Strangely enough, he had felt more at ease in Tom’s secret cottage than in the place he had grown up.

Sighing loudly, Harry rolled off the bed, and then slowly stood up. He hadn’t bothered to brush his hair, but he did wash his face and change his shirt before going to the kitchen to get something to eat. It was too late to call it a breakfast, really, yet too early for it to be dinner.

Harry had barely managed to make himself a sandwich when an owl flew in through the open window, dropped a thick envelope on the table, grabbed a tomato, and swept promptly out. For the next few minutes Harry stood silently, holding a knife and staring at the open window.

“Okay,” he muttered, putting the knife down and wiping his hands before reaching for the envelope. The moment Harry saw the Durmstrang coat of arms on it, he knew what the envelope would contain. And he was right: introductions, explanations, applications, contracts, insurance agreements – all the things the teachers had told them about before, and some more.

Harry spent the next few hours going through the papers and filling the applications that needed filling, before he decided to firecall Truls.

“You got yours, too, didn’t you?” the other boy said immediately. “I got mine this morning. Did you fill them out already?”

“Some parts,” Harry said. “Are you nervous?”

“A little bit. I mean, it’s cool and a great opportunity and so on, but… if you do end up competing, it can take a turn for the worse pretty fast. I don’t regret signing up, though. Do you?”

“No.” Maybe.

“Did you,” Truls started, his voice suddenly hesitant. “Did you tell your dad yet?”

“No,” Harry replied, thinking of James. What would his reaction be? Would he forbid Harry from entering the tournament? Would he demand to see who had nominated Harry in the first place? Or what if –  _what if_  – his dad would just shrug and not care?

As much as Harry wanted to say that he was okay without James in his life, it would never be true. He missed having his father, and even though he knew he couldn’t take the risk of involving James in his plans, it didn’t make his absence any less painful.

“I don’t know how to tell him,” Harry said. “I may send a letter to my godfather, though. Sirius is incredibly busy but at least he’s more likely to give me some sort of a response. I don’t think anybody else needs to be told, really.”

“Don’t stress about it,” Truls told him. “You’ve got enough to focus on already, Harry. Think of something positive – like the Quidditch cup!”

“I’m waiting for that one,” Harry grinned. “Got any thoughts on who’ll make it to the finals? If Bulgaria will, we’ll be seeing Viktor Krum play!”

“That guy is something else. I heard he’s a bit slow, though. Is that true, do you know?”

“Slow how?”

“Not sure who started it,” Truls said, “but rumour has it that Quidditch is all Krum has. People say he barely knows how to speak.”

“That’s a lie!” Harry exclaimed, shocked. He felt bad for the older boy who was already struggling with his shyness. To think that people would spread awful rumours like that about him, it made Harry upset. “You said you’re not sure who started it, but got any ideas anyway?”

“Björn said it’s Lestrange,” Truls revealed. “Anthony Lestrange. He’s Krum’s classmate, and will also be coming with us to Hogwarts. Bellatrix Lestrange would be his aunt.”

“Why would he say something like that about his classmate?”

“Jealousy, I guess. Lestrange is a bit of an attention seeker, if Björn is to be believed.”

“How does Björn even  _know_  these things?”

“Who knows with that guy? Wouldn’t surprise me if we came back to find him running the school.”

“That would be something. I wonder how well he knows Lestrange,” Harry said. “The guy doesn’t sound like a pleasant person at all.”

“I suppose we ought to ask Björn when we meet him next,” Truls said with a quick smile. “In a month or so. Are you betting on anyone, by the way? I’m considering, but nowhere near sure yet…”

*

Another prison break in Italy. Ivrea, this time. What happened there was far too similar to what happened in Turin for it to be a coincidence. Would there be another prison break happening soon? What were the rebels aiming for?

Nurmengard?

No, impossible. They couldn’t possibly know who he kept in there. Nobody had a reason to consider that place relevant in any way. Azkaban was far more… infamous. Were they truly trying to attack all the prisons, systematically? So far what connected the freed prisoners was simply them being rebels, but there had to be something more.

The Rebels wouldn’t take risks just to free a few random inmates. If they were only interested in creating havoc and chaos, they would have simply opened the cells of as many prisoners as possible. No, those plans had been created to save specific witches and wizards, and in order to predict where they’d strike next, Tom would need to find a pattern in their plans.

 _Or_ figure out what exactly was bothering him about the attacks – what gave him that sense of familiarity, as if he had seen that kind of plan executed before.

 _“Taking into account your arrogance and inflated sense of self-importance,”_  Potter had told him,  _“it would make sense if you got your ass kicked previously the same way. Just think of all the wizards and witches who managed to pull one over you during the past few decades.”_

“Inflated sense of self-importance,” Tom muttered sullenly. “I  _am_  important.” The boy wasn’t perhaps entirely wrong, though. Not that Tom would ever tell him  _that_ , of course.

The attack didn’t make him think of Dumbledore, so it’d be safe to say that the old man’s friends and plans were as dead as he was, thank Merlin. There hadn’t been any notable betrayals for quite a while either. There  _had_  been a few nearly a decade ago, yet all but one were dead—

All but one.

_All but one._

Tom took in a deep breath before he quickly pulled out the papers regarding the formation of the attack and set them in front of him on the table. He looked at them for a few moments silently, before summoning a dusty, paper-filled box from under one of the bookshelves.

His long, spidery fingers were steady despite his sudden nervousness, as he spelled off the layers of dust and rummaged through the pile of papers, looking for a specific report. He found it soon enough, and put it down next to the papers he had on his table.

It matched, to some degree. The plan, the methods used. The modus operandi. The two attacks that had taken place recently were obviously based on the same attack that one of Tom’s former Death Eaters had designed to help him take over Azkaban decades ago. Except that the rebels now had less resources.

 _‘All of the modifications done to the plan were caused by a lack of materials or information,’_  Tom thought, knowing now for sure who was behind this.

Despite what Tom had thought at first, this had nothing to do with Albus Dumbledore or his cursed memory. No, this was someone else. Someone who had disappeared years ago and had been _presumed_ dead.

This had Regulus Black written all over it.

*

Standing in front of his mother’s grave made Harry feel even more disconnected with his past than before. How one person could be what holds a family together, he wasn’t sure, but that’s what his mother had managed to do without anyone being aware of it.

The sun was already setting and the temperature was slightly colder than it had been hours ago. Harry knelt down, not worrying about the mud that would stain his trousers, opting to get comfortable instead.

“Mum, I miss you,” he said quietly, and for a moment entertained the idea of telling her about James. But what was there left to tell, really? It wouldn’t help, and James wasn’t the reason why Harry had come here today anyway. Harry had enough to worry about and wanted some sort of comfort, even if the comfort was something he imagined from a dead person.

“I wonder how things would be right now if you were alive,” Harry said. “Somehow I don’t think I would have been able to get myself into the tournament. You would’ve put a stop to it and told me off for being reckless.” The boy fell silent for a moment, before continuing hesitantly, in a much weaker voice: “Nobody tells me off for being reckless anymore. Not unless it benefits them.”

A soft wind had begun to blow, making Harry remember the times when his mother had absently brushed his hair with her fingertips. The ordinary moments he had shared with her seemed to belong to another lifetime, another Harry who wasn’t as  _real_.

“I got myself into a tournament,” Harry whispered. “Who knows what will happen there.” Tom had promised to help him, but so far the man hadn’t sent him any kind of a message. He’d come when he had something to ask; that was certain. Helping him would surely make Tom acknowledge that Harry wasn’t like other people. That maybe he was somehow useful, valuable. Worth being kept around.

 _‘Wishful thinking,’_  Harry thought bitterly. Wanting to be acknowledged was such a dangerous need. Where would it end? How could it be satisfied? Was that something Tom had felt, too, once upon a time?

With a sigh, Harry finally stood up, dusted his clothes as well as he could, and turned to leave the graveyard. He had barely taken a few steps though when he stopped. In front of him stood a tall man in black robes, his black hair reaching his shoulders, and dark eyes looking at him with undisguised contempt.

“Potter,” the man said, his voice revealing none of the hostility his expression showed.

“Mister Snape,” Harry said. The man had been a friend of his mother’s, and very famously an enemy of Sirius and James, back when things had been easier and simpler, and an enemy was a word thrown around rather lightly. “Good evening.”

“You will be coming to Hogwarts after the summer,” Snape said, not quite blocking Harry’s way, and yet somehow managing to stop the boy from walking past him. “She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“For glory, I wouldn’t either,” Harry lied. Then again, it wasn’t the adoration of the general public that he was after, but the respect of a specific someone. “But I’m afraid I have no other options.”

“And how could that be?” Snape sneered. “You have nothing to prove.”

“Mainly because I have no one to prove anything to,” Harry agreed. “It’s not like James is even going to turn up to watch what will happen. I know Sirius is busy, too.”

“Why not simply study, graduate, and find a job like any other person?” Snape wanted to know. “Or is your need to be someone special so overwhelming?”

Harry looked at the man silently for a few moments, wondering if there was a right answer to give. He hadn’t seen Snape in years, hadn’t thought of him either. Seeing him there, right then, hearing his words – Harry didn’t know how to answer. Strangely enough, as lonely as he sometimes felt, he couldn’t recall feeling that loneliness ever so crushingly. Standing there, in front of Snape, knowing that there would be no one to save him from the man’s words.

Hoping that the wizard wouldn’t reach out to stop him, Harry walked past Snape and towards the gates of the graveyard. He knew that Snape wouldn’t be able to step into the Potter Manor without Harry’s permission, and the thought of that made him feel a bit more at ease.

When Harry finally reached home and turned to close the front door, he saw Snape still standing there, watching him like a tall, dark, bad omen.

“Vurney!” Harry called, and a house-elf appeared. “Close the curtains of every single room facing the graveyard. Make sure all of the doors are locked.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” the little creature said, and disappeared right before another turned up.

“Master Harry,” said the other house-elf said. “There be a guest waiting for Master Harry.”

“A guest?” It would have to be someone Harry had invited before, to grant him the ability to come back. Did Truls pop in for a visit? Or maybe Luna? Luna  _could_  turn up without a warning, she—

Oh.

Tom was sitting on the couch, looking bored to the point of pain. He was dressed in dark blue, finely cut robes and what looked like dragonhide boots. It wasn’t an outfit one wore for a simple, friendly chat.

“What have you gotten yourself into this time?” Harry asked, stepping further into the room and realizing suddenly how tired the Dark Lord looked. “You look like someone going to battle.”

“Hardly,” Tom replied, rubbing his eyes before huffing in annoyance and leaning back on the chair. “Where were you?”

“Talking to my mum,” Harry said. “Not… not at the station. At the graveyard, I mean. I can’t reach her the other way, she’s long gone.”

“Can you reach her this way, then?”

“Well, no, but— It makes me feel better.”

“You have strange hobbies,” Tom said, eyeing Harry with a contemplative expression on his face. “Do you feel better now, after talking with her?”

“I would,” Harry said, “but I bumped into Snape and… he was a friend of my mum’s. He just never liked dad or me very much. At all, really.”

“Severus Snape? Well yes, no one can accuse _him_ of making anyone feel better.” The Dark Lord then gave Harry a rather odd look, before he continued, seemingly reluctantly: “You are unhurt though, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am. He didn’t hex me if that’s what you mean. He just… had an opinion about my willingness to participate in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“An  _opinion_.”

“Not a very positive one, but that’s fine,” Harry said quickly. “Really, it’s fine. I mean, I know what people like him will think. That I’m, well, self-centered and fame-hungry. Acting out, ambitious… Things like that.”

“Which reminds me of why I don’t usually encourage people to have their own opinions,” Tom sneered. “No matter, Snape isn’t someone worth discussing. I have a task for you.”

“Okay,” Harry said, nervously. “Later on, will you teach me some spells or something? Anything?”

“Yes, yes, whatever. For the moment, forget about the dead generals I’m making you look for,” Tom continued. “Go to that train station of yours and ask whoever you need to ask about a man called Regulus Black.”

 _‘Regulus_ Black _? Is he related to Sirius? Probably, yeah. More like definitely. Everybody is more or less related to the Black line.’_  “And then?”

“I’m only looking to find out if he’s alive or dead. I prefer the latter, but the less preferable option is currently appearing to be the more likely one.”

“Regulus Black,” Harry muttered, and nodded slowly. He could go to the train station and ask Merope if she knew anything about someone with that name. Albus, too, if the old man was there. “I’ll need to lie down.”

“The couch is available.”

“My bed is upstairs.”

“The couch is closer.”

“My bed—”

“ _The couch_.” Harry stared at Tom for a few silent moments filled with disbelief. He then sighed heavily and shrugged off his jacket, before lying down on the couch. After a few moments of shuffling, the boy grabbed a cushion and shoved it under his head.

“We’ll talk about your behaviour later,” Harry promised. “Switch off the lights and don’t make a sound, I need to focus.”

“Of course,” Tom said absently, watching the boy curiously. He didn’t need any rituals or spells, apparently, and had simply lied down and closed his eyes, as if he was going to sleep. He didn’t  _really_  fall asleep though, right? He looked like he was, but that would be ridiculous.

The Dark Lord waited for a few minutes, before he moved closer to take a better look, trying to find any visible signs that would show him that Harry wasn’t just napping on the couch, but actually  _doing something_. He frowned, wondering how long he’d have to wait.

Then again, he would willingly wait for a whole damn day if Potter would be able to tell him whether or not Black was alive.

*

“I thought everything was done, already,” Karkaroff said, stopping to stand next to Sirius, who was looking at what used to be the Quidditch Pitch. “You’ve done quite a good job.”

“Everything  _is_  ready,” Sirius replied. “But I need to check the spells every now and then, just in case. Then, of course, the seating arrangements. That’s impossible to do before August, so I’m not even thinking about it yet.”

“Indeed. Say, have you been given the list of participants? The seven students from Durmstrang have been chosen already, and most of the paperwork is done.” Karkaroff turned to look at Sirius properly, with an unusually serious expression on his face.

“The looks you’re giving me don’t promise me anything good,” Sirius said lightly. “Should I worry?”

“Your godson will be coming to Hogwarts after the summer. He was one of the students who was selected.”

“I’m… not upset, but… I- I thought he’d need remarkable recommendations in order to—”

“That’s the thing,” Karkaroff said. “He  _has_  remarkable recommendations. Not from his father, though. Is the man truly so neglectful of his heir that he doesn’t care to see what he’s up to?”

“James is fighting our battles in Ireland,” Sirius snapped angrily. “He’s doing far more than _you_ are, Karkaroff.”

“Perhaps he should come back, though,” the Headmaster of Durmstrang said. “If only to keep an eye on the company his son keeps.”

Sirius stood silently for a moment, before looking at the older Death Eater with a wary expression. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Plenty,” the man said. “Harry Potter was selected as one of the seven potential champions of Durmstrang, even though he has only two recommendations. Neither is from you or, as I said earlier, from his father.”

“Who, then? Those two would need to be quite important for their votes to carry such weight.”

“Oh, they are. One of them is Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn’t recommend her nephew, Black. She recommended _your godson_. Any idea why?”

“Bellatrix did?” Sirius muttered, narrowing his eyes. What was his cousin up to? “Perhaps she chose to recommend him to annoy me, or to annoy her nephew’s family. You know as well as I do how whimsical Bellatrix is. Who can really tell why she does what she does.”

“The thing is, I can agree with what you said about your cousin,” Karkaroff said. “But how can you explain that your godson’s other recommendation came directly from the Dark Lord himself?”

For a moment, Sirius was sure that he had heard wrong. It became apparent, however, that he hadn’t, and this realization came with a feeling of anxiety at the pit of his stomach, cold sweat, and a feeling of nausea. He knew that he was being quite transparent with his shock, but he couldn’t control what he was going through – he couldn’t come up with a single logical explanation as to _why_ the Dark Lord would even be aware of Harry. Not a single—

Suddenly a memory from years ago surfaced. A hazy memory of when the Dark Lord had told him to round up the Potters and take them to witness an execution. Sirius had assumed that the reason for that had been perhaps to torment Lily for being a muggleborn. What if that _hadn’t_ been the case, though? What if, for some reason, the Dark Lord had wanted _Harry_ there?

That didn’t make any sense, though. It couldn’t be true. Sirius was definitely jumping into conclusions with his thoughts, his panic making him think rather strange ideas. For all he knew, the Dark Lord could have simply told Bella to cast a vote on his behalf.

Maybe. Perhaps. Could be.

_Not likely._

“You didn’t know,” Karkaroff said, nodding slowly to himself. “I had assumed that the Dark Lord was merely doing a favour to you, recommending your godson and sending him to Hogwarts.”

“No,” Sirius said, feeling numb. “I didn’t know.” What could be the reason? What if— oh!  _Oh_! Sirius felt sudden relief wash over him when he finally figured out a good reason for the Dark Lord to want Harry to compete in the tournament. If the man had finally found out that Harry had his wand’s brother, perhaps all he wanted was to see how worthy Harry was of it?

Years ago they had been nervous about this, about the Dark Lord finding out about Harry’s wand, but things had changed so much since then. Surely he wouldn’t hurt Harry publicly?

 _‘Maybe the tournament is his test for Harry,’_  Sirius thought, feeling dreadful again. Perhaps the Dark Lord was getting some sort of sick amusement from making Harry’s godfather design a test that could get him killed.

“I’m glad to know now, though,” Sirius said. “I suppose I ought to take a more… active role when it comes to preparing him for the tournament.”

“Will you have the time? I heard you will be quite busy, my friend.”

“I’ll find a way.” He could pick some truly useful books and send them to Harry. That wouldn’t be cheating, not at all. He was the boy’s godfather and had the right to give him gifts as often as he wanted to.

He just hoped that the books would be enough.

*

After a bit less than two hours of waiting, Tom had discovered that while one could initially confuse Harry’s state for sleep, it really wasn’t. The boy hadn’t so much as twitched while unconscious, his breathing was unnaturally slow, his heartbeat quiet, and his skin turning from simply pale to sallow.

Harry groaned suddenly, and after a few moments of gasping he rolled to lie on his stomach and hide his face against the cushion. The Dark Lord eyed the boy for a few seconds before conjuring a handful of ice cubes and deigning to pull the boy’s shirt up to pour them over his back.

The shrieking that followed was enough compensation for the trouble.

“I  _hate_  you,” Harry said, tears in his eyes, squirming, looking both sleepy and enraged. His hair had somehow become messier and the cushion had left an imprint on the boy’s other cheek. “You are an absolute  _bastard_.”

“Now now, no need to be so hurtful,” Tom told him. “So, do you have any information to share?” Harry regarded him with a dark look, before he sighed and shook his head.

“Not really,” he replied. “Well, aside from that nobody has seen Regulus Black – not even the people who have been waiting there for decades. It could be that he slipped in with the crowd, unnoticed… or that he just—”

“Hasn’t died yet,” Tom finished for him, grimacing. “I should have known. Anything else?”

“It keeps on becoming more and more crowded,” Harry said after a moment of hesitation. “The station, I mean. People are dying.”

“Well yes, that was obvious. War. It happens.”

“Can’t you stop it?”

The question had slipped out, and Harry looked surprised at his own question. Tom stared at him for a few silent moments, oddly unsure of what he should say. It wasn’t that there were any _wrong_ answers to the boy’s question, but he… just…

“I’m _trying_ ,” Tom finally said. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Stop the war. Bring peace. But the Rebels would rather condemn our world to a never-ending war than accept an era of peace led by me. Whose fault is that? Who’s the one who keeps fighting?”

“Maybe you should tell them that,” Harry suggested. “Maybe you should let them know that those who don’t want to fight anymore are welcome to come back. Make them choose between staying there in the camps, under constant danger, or coming here to keep their children safe.”

“And what guarantee would _I_ have that they won’t simply all move closer, only to have a better aim for when they shoot me?” Tom hissed. “Those people have been brainwashed by the men and women who took my rise to power personally—”

“It’s hard to take the death of a loved one in any way but that,” Harry said quietly, and the Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at the boy, before a cruel smile appeared on the man’s face.

“Do _you_ hate the rebels?” Tom asked softly, mockingly. “Do you hate them for killing your mother? Or do you dedicate so much of your energy into not thinking of how she died, of who might be the person to blame? Or do you, perhaps, blame  _me_?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry snapped, thinking of James. “No amount of grief, revenge, or blame will bring her back. I could, you know. I could spend years looking for the exact person to blame for her death, but—” But he didn’t want to. Did that make him a bad son? Did that mean he hadn’t loved her, really? Did that—

Harry sat down on the couch again, breathing deeply while trying not to cry. He was exhausted, tense, and confused. He felt sick and lonely and stupid once again, and all he wanted to do was sleep and pretend there wasn’t a world outside the door.

Instead, he thought of James.

“I have seen what grief can do,” Harry said. “I know how easy it is to drown yourself under all the bad things in your life. To be angry at everything, most of all at yourself. Carrying on from one day to the next, going through the motions in a haze, not being awake enough to feel _alive_. I don’t want that life. That isn’t a life at all.”

It wasn’t a common occurrence for Tom to be unable to find words to say – in fact, he couldn’t quite remember when he had last wished to say something, and found nothing but emptiness inside him. He couldn’t help but, for a moment, think of how different the world would have been had he been more like Harry, and less like himself.

He wouldn’t be a Dark Lord, he wouldn’t be immortal. He wouldn’t have changed the world.

Of happiness, he could not speak. He wasn’t sure what _that_ truly was anyway. Besides, was _Harry_ happy with his life? With who he was now? He really doubted that.

“Do you know any healing spells?” was what Tom finally managed to say. “You’ll need some of those in case you get injured. More men die of their inability to heal simple wounds than of great and unstoppable curses.”

“I’d like to learn some,” Harry said. “How busy will you be in the next few weeks? My friends and I will be going to watch the Quidditch World Cup’s final match on the twenty-second of August. After that it’ll be just a few days before we have to go to Hogwarts.”

“I’m aware of your plans,” Tom said. “As stupid as they might be.”

“You won’t be attending? I thought since it’s a big event—”

“No. No.  _No_. Quidditch has  _never_  been my thing.”

“Are you bad at flying?”

“I am  _not_  bad at  _anything_ , Potter!”

*

Between practicing for the Tournament with Tom, reading the books and letters Sirius had unexpectedly been sending, dealing with paperwork, memorizing instructions and information as well as occasionally chatting with his friends, Harry’s time flew by quickly. The Quidditch World Cup was fast coming to its climax, and much to Harry’s delight, Krum’s team had made it to the final. The only remaining match left would be between Ireland and Bulgaria, and Harry was less than twenty-four hours away from seeing it.

“You’ve got your things packed?” Truls asked. All of Harry’s classmates had arrived at the Potter Manor quite early on that same day – with the exception of Truls who had come, as agreed, two days earlier.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “The tent’s been packed?”

“I did that,” Heidi said cheerfully, her golden hair tied into a loose bun. “I made sure that it’s big enough for all of us.”

“This is _so_ exciting,” Petronella grinned, her gaunt face looking a tad bit livelier than usually. “I’ve never been on a trip like this before.”

“Me neither,” Jakob admitted, flicking his personal emergency portkey tied around his wrist. “Krum will be playing, won’t he?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Björn, I know you love betting, but the guys there are likely to beat you up if you swindle them.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Clemens grinned, before checking the time. “Okay, everyone, gather around. We’ve got just a few minutes before this will take us there. Is all your crap with you?”

“You  _could_  just call it luggage, you know?” Filippa said, squeezing herself to stand between Harry and Nikolai, and reaching for the cane that had been turned into a portkey. “Ooh, Heidi, I _love_ your nails.”

“Thanks,” the girl grinned. “I got them done last week.”

Harry, for his part, wasn’t quite so eager to chat with the others at the moment. He truly didn’t enjoy portkey trips, and the mere thought of them made him think of how dizzy he’d end up being. When the portkey finally activated, he held on for his dear life, trying to not cringe at the delighted screaming coming from Björn and Filippa.

 _‘I have to learn how to apparate,’_  the boy decided then.  _‘I’ll make it a priority. Tom can teach me. Oh Merlin when will this end.’_

When they finally arrived, Harry looked nearly as sick as Jakob, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand up and push his way through the crowd he could see in the camping area. Truls helped him up, grinning all the while.

“Shut up,” Harry said weakly. “ _Dear_   _Circe,_  if I never have to use a portkey again, I’ll be happy.”

“Oh, Harry,” Petronella said fondly. “You’ll live.”

“I love this already,” Björn cheered, watching the crowd in front of them. People from all over the world, waving numerous sorts of flags, were milling around to the sounds of music and constant chatter. Children were running, their delighted screams and loud games adding its own charm to the place.

 _‘Tom would hate it,’_  Harry thought, suddenly feeling better.

“Let’s find our place first,” Clemens said. “I told my uncle to book us a good one. It should be closer to the stands, rather than here at the gates.”

“Onwards we go, then,” Jakob said happily. “Man, I can’t wait for the match to start. Tomorrow evening, eh?”

“Plenty of time to place some bets,” Björn said. “Marshmallows!”

“We’ll pitch the tent first, and then everyone can go wherever,” Clemens said, sounding impatient. “Come on! Björn, I swear to Merlin  _if you don’t let go of that bag of marshmallows_ , you’re  _not_  buying them  _now_ —”

“This is great,” Harry grinned, looking around him. He wasn’t used to crowds such as this one – so much noise, so much colour, so much happiness and excitement. It was a pleasant change from the norm.

“It sure is,” Truls agreed. “And tomorrow will only be better.”

“Harry, you’re friends with Krum, aren’t you?” Clemens said suddenly. “Good friends, I mean. Think he’ll drop by to say hi to you?”

“Oh, no, I believe he’s much too busy,” Harry told him. “Besides, how would he even find us here?”

“I want some butterbeer,” Filippa sighed, watching a group of wizards drinking nearby and nearly tripping over two little boys running past her. “Someone should put a leash on those brats!”

“You can buy some soon,” Clemens told her, finally stopping. “We’re here, this is our—oh  _no_.”

“What?” Harry wanted to know, looking at what had made Clemens frown. Much to his surprise, the tent that was pitched next to their empty spot was surrounded by a very familiar looking family.

“Ginger overdose,” Clemens muttered, before turning to the others. “Let’s unpack the tent. The sooner we get it up, the sooner we all can go and have fun.”

“Do I seriously have to pitch the tent with you all?” Heidi asked. “I  _brought_  the tent.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Clemens sighed, clearly annoyed. Harry was about to offer his help, when he felt someone grab his elbow.

“Harry!” Ron Weasley exclaimed. “Blimey, mate! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you! How are you? Are you here with your dad? Mum! Look who’s here!” Not giving Harry the chance to reply, Ron dragged the dark-haired boy to where his mother was standing.

“Oh Harry, sweetie” Molly Weasley said with a warm smile, her kind eyes twinkling with happiness as she hugged him. “My, you’ve grown so much! Here for the match, dear? With your father?”

“I’m here with a few friends from school,” Harry replied, allowing himself to lean into Molly’s hug for an instant. He had always liked the Weasley matriarch. To avoid any questions about James, he continued: “Dad couldn’t come.”

“Well then, if there’s anything you need, sweetheart, you come and tell me, alright?” Molly said, moving slightly to let Ron rush past her, screaming something about omelettes. “I know you must be busy, so I won’t keep you, but it’s  _so_  good to see you. You know you will always be welcome at the Burrow, don’t you?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said politely. “I appreciate it.” He really did, and for a moment he entertained the idea of someday taking her up on the offer.

“Harry!” Filippa hollered. “The tent is up! Come unpack!”

“Um—”

“Well, off you go, then,” Molly said, still smiling warmly at him. “Have fun, dear, and remember to be careful!”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, wishing he could hug her again. “I, I really— Thank you.” Molly looked at him, then, with a smile that looked nearly sad. He knew that she was thinking of Lily, and that… made  _him_  think of her as well. Thinking of his late mother was something Harry did not want to do, and so he quickly excused himself and hurried to where his friends already were.

“This is a ridiculously posh tent, Heidi,” Clemens was saying, eyeing the gilded furniture with a look of mild horror. “Is this— Oh, hi Harry! Finally back, eh?”

“It’s the Weasleys,” Harry said, setting his bag next to Truls’s, and sitting down on an empty bed. “The family to our right, I mean. They’re good people.”

“Not relatives of Björn, I take it?” Filippa asked teasingly. “He’d fit right in!”

“We can go visit them later, if you wish,” Truls offered, and for a moment Harry’s heart was filled with gratitude towards his best friend.

“Count me out,” Clemens said. “Hold on, though, we can go and brag about Krum. Okay, count me in.”

“You’re an ass,” Filippa said.

“This is awesome,” Harry whispered, shifting a bit when Truls sat down next to him. “I wish we could always have this atmosphere. I’m happy.”

They didn’t get the chance to spend the evening with the Weasleys, but it turned out that their seats in the audience would be quite close, and Harry found some comfort in that. The day itself was full of laughter, good food, and new things to look at. By the time night fell, they were all tired.

Harry, surrounded by his closest friends and feeling truly content for the first time in _years_ , believed there was no other place he’d rather be than there.

*

“How far up are our seats?” Jakob huffed, leaning heavily against Clemens’ arm. The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right.

“We’ll soon be there,” the other boy promised. “Very soon. In fact, just hold on of a few second _aaaand_ here we are.”

The lights were bright around them, and people were already cheering and screaming encouragements even though the teams were nowhere to be seen yet. The Weasleys were already in their seats, greeting Harry happily when they saw him. With them stood a girl with curly brown hair, and Ron was quick to introduce her.

“This Hermione Granger,” he said. “She’s in Gryffindor with Ginny and me. Hermione, this is Harry Potter. He’s from Durmstrang.”

“I’ve heard so much about your school,” the girl said, smiling nervously. “Only good things, of course. It’s very advanced.”

“Um, thank you, I guess?” Harry said, unsure of how to respond. “Hogwarts has its own excellent reputation, though. My parents went there.” The girl’s expression shifted, and she nodded warily.

“It’s one of the few schools that still accept Muggleborns,” Granger said. “I— I’m…”

“My mum was too,” Harry told her, feeling instantly more relaxed. “Do you like it there?”

“Oh yes!” Granger exclaimed, smiling brightly, her nervousness apparently gone all of a sudden. “It’s amazing! There’s so much to  _learn_.”

“There always is,” Harry agreed. He then felt an arm around his shoulders, and turned to see Truls smiling coldly at Hermione, who flinched and averted her gaze.

“Do you hear the drums?” Truls asked Harry. “The Irish team will be here soon.”

“I hope to talk with you again soon, Miss Granger. You too, Ron,” Harry said, smiling pleasantly, allowing Truls to pull him between himself and Clemens. Clemens didn’t look particularly happy about having to sit next to Ron, who seemed to return the sentiment.

How those two managed to dislike each other despite having met only  _once_  before, Harry wasn’t quite sure.

Suddenly, a loud voice boomed in the stadium, into every corner of the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice started. “Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators screamed and clapped, and Harry grinned, leaning against Truls while enjoying the happiness surrounding him. Thousands of flags waved, people whistled, some even had begun singing. The words  _BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0_  appeared on a huge blackboard at the other end of the stadium.

“And now,” the booming voice continued, “without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval, and Harry leaned forward to get a better look at what was going to happen.

“Veela!” Heidi shrieked suddenly.

“Thank you, Bulgaria!” Björn hollered. Harry was staring at a group of exceptionally beautiful women, who had started to dance there to the sound of music Harry could barely hear.

“The Veela have the power to bewitch men,” Truls said, leaning close to Harry. “Someone should stop Clemens from jumping out there, even though I think it’d be hilarious.”

“They are pretty,” Harry admitted, squinting at them while reaching to grab the hem of Clemens’s jacket. “But not… bewitching.” He was perhaps a bit more bothered by how easily Clemens had been affected. For some reason it made him almost… upset. Not quite, but he wasn’t as happy as he had been a moment ago.

Eventually, the veela women finished their dance, and the booming voice spoke again:

“And now, kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!” He had barely finished speaking when what looked like a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light.

The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display, and Harry felt some of his good mood returning. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands, leaving a trail of gold light in its wake.

“Leprechauns!” Harry heard Mr. Weasley yell over the tumultuous applause. “Brilliant!”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the booming voice said. “Kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!”

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.

“Ivanova!”

A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — Krum!”

“He’s here!” Filippa shrieked, reaching past Truls to smack Harry. “Harry, he’s here!” Krum was indeed there, flying fast with his teammates.

“Who’s that?” Harry heard Granger ask, and he grinned widely when Ron replied:

“That’s Viktor Krum! He’s the best seeker in the world!”

“He’s also one of Harry’s close friends,” Clemens bragged, making Harry muffle his laugh against Truls’s shoulder. The other boy just wouldn’t stop mentioning that, would he?

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” the booming voice yelled. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!”

Seven green blurs swept onto the field; and Harry cheered with the rest, though he didn’t look away from where Krum was flying. He didn’t wave, doubting that Krum would even know he was there anyway. The Seeker would obviously have other priorities.

The match that followed was Quidditch of the kind Harry had never seen before. Fast, incredible, ruthless, and intense. The Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Harry found it difficult to follow.

His heart was beating quickly; excitement was making him feel more alive than he had for a while. Truls’ arm around his shoulders was a comforting weight that anchored him to the moment, and the sound of his friends cheering for Krum brought him comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

Harry felt that maybe, just maybe, there was some hope for happiness after all.

*

Tired, filthy, and exhausted, James Potter apparated back home. He barely made it past the door before having to stop and lean against the wall for some support. All he wanted was a drink, everything else could wait.

“Master James,” a squeaky voice said, and a house-elf appeared. “A bath will be waiting for Master James in a minute.”

James didn’t reply, and slid down to sit on the floor. The mud on his clothes had begun to dry, and he imagined what Lily would have said about him. Nothing positive, that’s for sure. She would look at him and feel _so_ disappointed, as disappointed as he was with himself.

The hollow emptiness that had been inside him for such a long time, ever since Lily died, seemed to grow and grow and grow, and now the void felt as big as his entire body. Would he bleed if he cut his skin, or would he find only silent darkness? A hole where a human should be?

He heard a sob, and belatedly realized that he was crying. Tears made their way across his dirty cheeks, as deep, wheezing sobs shook his whole body. The shadows around him seemed isolating, and he barely felt it when a few of the Potter house-elves came to help him to the bathroom.

There was an itch under his skin, and James knew that if he had the energy, he’d feel annoyed. Angry, maybe. Now he just… felt nothing, really. Just hollow, as if everything he was had somehow evaporated, leaving him empty. He wasn’t sad, wasn’t happy, wasn’t anything.

He used to think that Lily’s death had left him with too many feelings. More feelings than he knew how to cope with. Now he knew that the opposite was true – her death had sucked the feelings out of him, and being like that was painful, unmanageable.

James didn’t resist when the little house-elves helped him first take off his shoes, then his jacket, and then the rest of his clothes. Absently, still stuck deep in his thoughts, he climbed into the bathtub, allowing the warm water to surround him.

He sighed, feeling heavy and tired.

“Look at yourself,” he whispered, repeating the words that had haunted him for days now. “Are you a father anyone would want to have?”

 _“Look,”_  the Lily in his mind whispered, “ _look at what you have become_.”

He had been, once upon a time, a man who could find happiness in the smallest of things. Now there was nothing in this world that could make him smile. Not even his son. Was he truly anything but a burden to Harry anyway? Wasn’t he the ball and chain that kept his son from achieving things greater than James had been able to?

All he had now was the war the Dark Lord was fighting. Days of walking through dead woods, drowning in mud, watching people wither away around him, struck down by hunger or illness.

_“You used to be someone I could love. A strong man, a strong father. Look at what you are now.”_

James opened his eyes, looking at the white walls and the marble floor, and the two house-elves standing by the door. He stared at them for a few moments, before he spoke.

“You two,” he said. “Bring me a bottle of firewhisky, and then leave. Do not come back here until I call you back. Do not knock, do not— just… Do as I told you.”

“Yes, Master James.”

_“What are you doing with your life, anymore?”_

They obeyed. Of course they did.

James let the taste of firewhisky soothe him, let it drown away everything else as he relaxed, sinking further into the dirty water. A thought at the back of his mind sparked, making him think fleetingly of standing up. Of getting out of the bathtub.

He ignored it, and sunk down further. The lack of air would make his lungs burn, he was sure of that, but nothing would burn worse than the firewhisky he had just drunk.

It was time to let go.

It was time to set Harry free.

*

“It’s been great,” Harry grinned happily, hoisting up his bag. His portkey would take him home soon, though he truly didn’t want to leave. The sun was out, the day was warm, and everyone was in a good mood. “See you guys soon, I hope?”

“Well, you and Truls will be going to Hogwarts,” Filippa said, “but we seriously have to meet before that. There’s still about a week before it.”

“Or we can just wait until Christmas break,” Heidi suggested. “I’m pretty sure there will be several Yule Balls thrown during that break, so we’ll definitely get to meet and catch up then!”

“Are you nervous about going to Hogwarts?” Petronella asked, and Harry shrugged.

“Not really,” he said, before continuing, a sudden idea occurring to him. “My dad went there. I could ask him about it. Maybe he’d like to drop by at some point.”

“That would be great,” Truls agreed, knowing how much that would mean to Harry. He knew that as much as his friend claimed that he would give up on James, he never really would. There would always be some part of him looking for ways to reconnect, find a common ground and return to how they used to be.

“If you talk with Mette, tell her how amazing I am,” Björn said, clutching Truls’s elbow. “My friend.  _Amigo_. Praise me greatly and you will be rewarded.”

“Why would I talk to her?” Truls asked, grinning. “Harry, your portkey is sparkling.”

“Yep,” Harry said, eyeing the portkey and dreading what was to come. “It’s activating. See you guys!” Once again, he felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground, and then he was speeding forward in a howl of wind and colour.

And then, not a moment too soon, his feet hit the ground. He stumbled down, taking deep breaths and vowing once again to learn how to apparate as soon as he could. Home, sweet home – the portkey had taken him right in front of the big fireplace in the living room.

With a yawn, Harry threw his bag onto the closest chair, and kicked off his shoes. He could leave the unpacking to the house-elves, right? Just this once.

“Master Harry,” a house-elf said, appearing suddenly and startling the boy. “Master James is taking a bath.”

“Oh, he’s home, then,” Harry said, feeling suddenly nervous. Alright, maybe this was a good thing. He could talk with his dad later on, tell him about the tournament, asking him things about Hogwarts. He could do this. Maybe James would even answer.

“Master Harry,” the house-elf started again, wringing its hands anxiously. “Master James has been in bath for over four hours. Master James said no house-elf can enter unless called, but Master James hasn’t called and it’s been _hours_ —” The creature’s squeaky voice rose higher and higher, and for some reason the panic in it made Harry feel sick.

He ran past the house-elf, towards his father’s room, and right through it to the bathroom connected to it. He saw the bathtub, but not a sign of his father. Not until he was close enough to see inside the bathtub itself.

And there, at the bottom, staring through the dirty water with dead and empty eyes was James Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: suicide by drowning


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * to the readers who think that nothing happens in this fic: in this chapter also nothing happens.  
> * this was really hard for me to write.

James’s body was heavy when Harry pulled it out of the bathtub. The boy felt dizzy and nauseated and confused, but the topmost thought in his mind was that he had to somehow -  _somehow_  - undo what James had done. Water swept through Harry's clothes, creating large patches that he barely noticed as he clumsily pulled out his wand and cast every single healing spell Tom had taught him. He knew it was pointless to try and keep trying, yet he did.

_'No, no, nononono.'_

Harry's heart was beating so hard against his chest that the boy feared he'd throw it up altogether. His father's body was cold and sallow and _wrong_ , so wrong, everything was wrong about it and Harry didn't know what to _do_. He saw a house-elf lurking on the other side of the open doorway, but what good did it do for the creature to come  _now_ , when it could have stopped this from happening hours ago.

_'Blessed, sweet, merciful Circe, please don't let this be true. Dad. Oh Merlin.'_

He ran out of spells long before he ran out of tears, and eventually all Harry could do was hit his father's still chest, screaming words that were bordering on incoherent. Breathing was hard, his arms ached, his head hurt, and Harry felt like the walls were closing in. He ended up leaning against his closed fists, bent over his father's corpse, weeping loudly.

He tried to think, but all thoughts seemed so illogical and senseless, as if he was trying to understand a foreign language. He wondered if it was a heart attack or something else that had caused this, and yet he knew - a dark thought that waited beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged - that that wasn't what had happened. He could have imagined his father’s heart betraying him, and his body slipping slowly under the surface, but he knew that nothing had pulled James down under. Nothing but phantom chains that Harry had never noticed before.

The water pooling around him was cold, and Harry was feeling his limbs grow heavy. His eyes were aching and when he raised his head, unable to look at his dad any longer, he saw an empty bottle of wine lying nearby. Harry stared at it for several minutes, trying to feel something -  _anything_  - but all he could feel was overwhelming exhaustion and grief that seemed to wipe away every single happy memory in his life so far.

"Vurney," he said quietly, his throat aching and voice hoarse. " _Vurney_."

A house-elf popped into the bathroom, its wide eyes taking in the sight of the deceased Potter and his son sitting by his side. The house elf swallowed heavily, ears trembling as he opened his mouth a few times without a sound coming out.

"Master Harry," he finally croaked, and nearly took a step back when the boy's face twisted with grief and he began crying again. Vurney felt his own eyes grow wet with tears as he took in the sight in front of him, remembering clearly how the matters had been a few years before.

"Get Sirius," Harry finally said, gasping for breath between his sobbing. "Tell him to come here, no matter where he is. Tell him to hurry, please."

"Master needn't ask Vurney twice," Vurney said. "Master Black will be brought here, Master Potter." The house-elf disappeared then, leaving Harry alone in the bathroom. He let go of James's body, even pushed himself to sit a few feet away from it, trying to wrap his mind around what was going on, what he was supposed to do. Did Sirius know about this? Did James tell Sirius something that could have warned the other man about this? Was there anyone who could have prevented this? What about the house-elves? Why didn't they stop James? Why did everyone just _let this happen_?

His mother would have known what to do. His mother would have known how to fix this.

His mother's presence would have  _prevented_  this. His mother's presence would have done what Harry's couldn't do: show James that there was still something worth living for in this world. Harry took a deep breath, and then exhaled heavily. The feeling of nausea was still there, and maybe it meant that he was selfish - not maybe,  _definitely_  - but the only thing that overpowered the feeling of loss was the feeling of betrayal.

People like Tom (and why was he thinking of Tom now?) dealt with betrayal through anger. Harry hoped that he too could do that, because anger was far better than this hurt that made him want to stop moving and drown in silence.

Drown.  _Heh_.

Harry looked down at the tiled floor, touched the closest puddle of water with his fingertips, seeing the shape of his father's corpse from the corner of his eye. He wanted out. He wanted out, away from the water. He didn't want to see water, didn't want to drink water, didn't want to think of it and what it had done.

Water wasn't to blame, though. Harry knew it was stupid to even think of blaming it, when the only one who could be blamed, was—

No, no. Harry didn't-  _couldn't_  blame James either. It wasn't James's fault if Harry hadn't given him a reason to fight harder. It wasn't James's fault that Harry had wrapped himself in the happiness he leeched from his friends at school, neglecting his father who hadn't known happiness since Lily died.

It wasn't James's fault.

But by  _Circe_ , Harry couldn't find him entirely blameless. Everything was so confusing, and Harry hoped - oh, how he hoped - for all this to be a _dream_. If only he could wake up, realize that it all was just a bad dream caused by stress and a mountain of regrets. If only he could wake up and get a second chance. He would definitely do better, he'd be a more thoughtful son, he'd write James a letter every day and patiently wait for him to respond.

Harry again crawled closer to his father's body and looked at him, trying to understand that which didn’t make sense to him.

*

“The viewers would be able to follow each champion during the first task," Sirius said, showing the Dark Lord a hologram of what he had in mind. "Since it will last for a week - the first task alone, I mean - they can purchase smaller screens and follow the events whenever they want to. Those who can't afford a smaller screen can watch the big ones we've set up on the Quidditch Field and the Great Hall."

Tom watched Black as the man talked, explaining the finer points of what he had organized. They were in Grimmauld Place - Black's home - somewhere in London, in a room Black had called his home office. The man didn’t understand that _calling_ it an office wasn’t enough to turn a room full of Quidditch posters into one. Grimmauld Place itself was a gloomy house with narrow staircases and few windows, and Tom couldn't for the life of him imagine living willingly in a place like this. It reminded him too much of another place with far too many dark corners and permanent dust.

"Acceptable so far," Tom said, leaning back on the chair he was sitting on. He was slightly skeptical about Black's plans, but didn't care enough to comment on them now. It would have been too late to change anything anyway, and there wasn't really anything outright  _wrong_  in Black's plans. They just seemed… slightly unreliable.

Sirius resisted the urge to sigh in relief at the Dark Lord’s approval. It had been a long day and he couldn't wait until the Dark Lord left, for more reasons than just his need to go and finally sleep. The man's presence was highly unsettling, his magic making the room feel smaller, and Sirius couldn't help but think of Lupin for a fleeting moment. Surely the Dark Lord wouldn't care if Sirius kept a werewolf in his basement, would he? It was hard to say anything about the man, what with the hood he was wearing that hid his face from view.

"I trust that you have finished the housing arrangements," Lord Voldemort said then, and Sirius was about to respond when a familiar house-elf appeared in the office.

"Master Black!" the house-elf wailed, throwing itself at Sirius. "Master Potter- Master Potter is dead!"

Hearing the words, a cold feeling washed over Sirius, and for a heartbeat the wizard thought that the floor was collapsing under his feet, only to realize that he had fallen to his knees instead. He opened his mouth, wanting to say  _something_ , to ask more, to try to  _understand_ , when he felt a pair of hands gripping his collar. He barely realized that the Dark Lord had moved from his chair and was for some reason shaking him, before they apparated.

Apparating was never pleasant, side-along even less so. The sensation of being forcibly apparated alongside someone was unpleasant to a degree Sirius hadn't experienced before. And yet what was making him nauseated were the thoughts of James or Harry dying. It  _couldn't_  be true, things like this didn't just  _happen_. It couldn't be true, the stupid creature must have misunderstood something. Maybe it had been cursed, maybe it was confused.

As soon as they arrived in front of the Potter Manor, the Dark Lord let go of Sirius, who fell onto the ground before managing to scramble up. The front door was open, another house-elf staring at them from the other side with tears in its eyes. For a fraction of a second Sirius wondered why the Dark Lord had even come with him, before he pushed his way past the other wizard, entered the house, and followed the creature leading him to James's room. There he found Harry bent over James's body, crying so hard his little body was shaking.

"Harry," Sirius gasped, stepping into the wet bathroom and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. " _James_."

"He's dead," Harry said, his voice hoarse and tearful. "I tried to fix it, but I  _couldn't_." Sirius took a deep breath and knelt down to gently pull his godson away from—  _Merlin_ , things like this shouldn’t happen.

“Come on, Harry,” Sirius said quietly, helping the boy stand and leading him away from the bathroom. Briefly he wondered about the Dark Lord, but a quick look through the window gave Sirius no definite answers. It was likely that the man had left already, and the wizard hoped that he wouldn’t be punished for basically bailing out on the Dark Lord himself.

Then again, this  _was_  an emergency, and the Dark Lord had been the one to apparate them here.

 _‘How did he know where to go, though?’_  Sirius thought, before he shook his head and refocused on his godson. Harry was pale and shaking slightly, looking at nothing but thin air with a glassy stare. Sirius hesitated for a few moments, unsure of what to do, but then decided to carry the boy to his own room and summoned a house-elf.

“Master Black,” said the creature, his greenish skin pulled tight over his sharp features. His wide, blue eyes were filled with tears.

“Get Harry something comfortable to wear,” Sirius said, pulling off the uncomfortable and partly wet clothes off the boy. "Quickly. And then get him a cup of tea." He wished he had some sort of a calming draught with him, but this was something he most certainly had never thought he should be prepared for. Either way, he could make Harry drink something warm and then cast a sleeping charm on him, before moving back to the bathroom to take care of-- to take care of James.

 _'Why?'_  Sirius thought, feeling a foreign pressure on his chest.  _'Did someone curse him?'_  It was a possibility. It definitely would be an option preferable to the most probable one. Maybe someone had hexed James and killed him, and made it all appear like a— appear like... Appear like a suicide.

 _Merlin_ , there was a word he had never felt much about. Now he did, too much. How did people  _survive_  this? What did people  _do_? What about  _Harry_?

Harry was quiet, so _quiet_. Probably still in shock, and Sirius didn't know what to do about it. He could let Harry sleep and tomorrow morning he could... maybe Harry would talk. To him, or to someone else. Maybe he should get the boy a mind-healer, just in case. Those people were good with questions and Sirius knew from experience that though the sessions were sometimes terrible, their aftermath was worth it.

Sirius pushed Harry to sit on his bed and helped him drink some of the tea the house-elf had brought. Predictably, the boy didn't manage to swallow anything down, just as he didn't quite manage to stop the constant tears from falling. Even after Sirius cast the sleeping charm on Harry, the child kept crying for the first few minutes.

Finally, well past two in the morning, Sirius stepped out of Harry's room and returned to the bathroom where the body - he didn't know which one was making it worse: calling him James or just 'the body' - was lying. The house-elves hadn't entered the bathroom at all, and though it was odd, Sirius didn't have the time to think of it now. He took a deep breath and levitated James's body to his room, dressed him, and sat down by the bed, not knowing what to do.

In the morning he'd need to contact the ministry and inform them of James's death. Before that, however, he'd need to call in a healer to confirm the reason and have him officially declared dead. Then, of course, the funeral arrangements would need to be made as well as officially registering himself as Harry's legal guardian.

The Healers tended to be early risers, and St. Mungo's was open 24/7.

Sirius took another deep breath and stood up to make the call. His tears could wait a day or two – first he’d need to take care of Harry, then James’s loose ends, and only after that he would sit down and allow the grief to take over for a night.

*

Harry woke up with an overwhelming sense of relief.

 _'Thank Circe it had been a dream,'_  he thought, ignoring the ache in his eyes and the heaviness in his heart. He took a deep breath, kicked off the covers, and sat up on his bed, thinking of breakfast with intense concentration that left no space for anything else. Slowly he moved again - standing up, walking towards the doorway. He briefly thought of changing into a more suitable attire, but who'd be there to see him? James wouldn't care.

Because James was—

 _'It was a dream,'_  Harry told himself, and thought of fresh berries with cereal, thought of a glass of orange juice and how shiny the wooden floor beneath his feet was. He made his way downstairs and right into the kitchen, noticing that even the doorknobs had been polished recently. Sirius was nowhere to be seen - surely that was another sign of Harry having dreamed everything?

His hands were shaking by the time he sat down with a bowl of cereal in front of him, and though he didn't feel hungry, he still ate. He counted the involuntary crunching sounds he made, focused on the taste of the berries and turned his face towards the window to look at the drifting clouds. In a week he'll be looking at that very same sky from Hogwarts.

"I've told you before," a familiar voice said, and Tom sauntered into the kitchen with a peculiar expression on his face. "It's ridiculously easy to break into this place."

"My dad is a good duelist," Harry said, and he didn't turn to look at the Dark Lord. "And you can go through any wards, so it's not like everyone else could just waltz in."

"I brought Black here yesterday," Tom told him, sitting down on a chair. "I didn't want to distract him so I disillusioned myself and observed the situation. Your father killed himself." The words felt like a punch to the gut, and made Harry flinch so hard he dropped his spoon and leaned away from the older wizard. It wasn't— James hadn't—

"You don't have time for that," Tom continued. "All those feelings, I mean. You've got a tournament to win."

"My dad," Harry croaked, denial finally crumbling away. "What— why did he— what  _happened_?"

"I don't care," Tom told him bluntly. "I don't understand or like death, so I leave it entirely to other people. Are you going to be emotional about it for long?" Harry stared at the man for a few silent moments, before the boy's face twisted and he burst into tears.

"No," Tom said, standing up. "I'm out of here." He didn't, for some reason, manage to make himself walk out of the kitchen, and instead eyed the crying boy with apprehension. Harry's sobs were becoming louder - the boy was  _bawling_ , and it was disgusting and disturbing to witness.

"Your godfather is worried about you," the Dark Lord finally sighed, kneeling down. Harry was still weeping when the man leaned closer, pressing his fingertips against Harry's cheeks. "Okay, how do I get you to stop doing this?"

Suddenly, Harry lurched forward, pressing his wet face against Tom's shoulder, and the man thought of the tears seeping through his clothes and creating horrible wet patches. For some reason, a reason Tom didn’t want to think about, it wasn't enough to make him push Harry away.

"My dad is dead," Harry finally croaked, his voice muffled. "Who do I have left?"

"Well, it's not like you had your father before, either," Tom told him, before he continued: "And you do have many other people willing to help you. Even more so if you win the Triwizard Tournament."

"My _dad_ won't be there to watch it," Harry said, and though he had cried so much already, fresh tears kept falling. " _Nobody_ will be—"

"Your godfather and I will be, most definitely."

"What do I _do_ now?" The words were barely out before Harry began sobbing again. His thin arms were wrapped around Tom, holding him as tightly as he could. Hesitantly, Tom pressed his own palms against the boy's back, wondering if that was enough support.

"Why did he do it?" Harry asked, moments later. " _Why_? I don’t get it."

"I don't know," replied Tom, not knowing what else to say. For that moment he regretted seeking Harry out, regretted coming to the Potter Manor to see how the boy was faring. He didn't want to be asked questions he didn't know how to answer, didn't like the feelings Harry had.

Harry pulled away from him -  _finally_! - and the look on his face was well past the sadness Tom had expected. It was terrible to see the exhausted misery and lack of any happiness in his face.

"I don't know," Tom repeated, "but you'll get through this. And when you get through this, life may throw something even more terrible at you, and you'll get through it too. Is that understood?"

"How?" Harry wanted to know. "How is this something _anyone_ can get through? My da— James— he,  _that_. And how am I supposed to know what to— How do I—? What do I  _do_?"

"Talk to your godfather," Tom said, deciding to let someone else handle all the feelings. He was here to make sure that Harry wouldn't chicken out of the Triwizard Tournament, not to talk about James Potter. "But if you need distractions, you can practice your spells. Think of the tournament and you won't think of your father."

He thought of telling the boy to go and take a look at the train station limbo he kept visiting, but what if the kid decided to _stay_ there? What if Harry thought that hey, might as well go with his dad? Tom wasn't going to let _that_ happen, and as long as he wouldn't remind the boy of the option - as long as he kept him occupied with other tasks and thoughts - that particular disaster would be avoided.

James Potter could have had better timing, granted. But Tom could work with this – Harry was in shock and had a lot of feelings, and even if the boy didn’t learn how to deal with them, that was fine. It was fine for the boy to not get over this particular death, as long as he still managed to function the way Tom wanted him to.

“I don’t want this to be real,” Harry said, closing his eyes. “When I woke up, I thought it had all been a dream because I didn’t remember going to bed.”

 _‘You’re so vulnerable,’_  Tom thought, before he stood up. “Your godfather will return soon, I believe. I will talk to him tomorrow regarding your future arrangements.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I want to.”

Harry looked at him, then, with a lost expression. Tom thought of staying, and almost did.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know you feel like your world just ended, or something. But you’re not the only orphan in this world. You’re better off than many others, so don’t let go of the advantages you have.”

“I know I have to go on,” Harry replied quietly. “I know I have so many things to do. I know I should be moving forward.”

“Good,” Tom started, when Harry continued, “I feel so empty and shallow. I feel like a single gust of wind could take me away, like a shove would break me. I  _know_  I need to survive, but I don’t know if I can.” Everything still felt so unreal, in all the bad ways.

“You can,” Tom told him. “I’ll drop by in a few days to make sure you’re still breathing. Practice your spells.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Harry asked, wondering if he had any right to feel the disappointment burning in his heart.

“It’s all I know how to say,” Tom replied, trying to explain his views honestly. “I’ve had my fair share of losses, Harry.  _I_  didn’t need anyone to get over them. I don’t understand how you’d feel the absence of a man who was never there for you anyway. I don’t understand your grief; I don’t know why you feel it. If you want me to lie and comfort you the way I would comfort a pawn to make them move, sure, I could. But I choose not to.”

“Don’t belittle someone for needing the things you can survive without,” Harry told him tiredly, feeling hurt. “I need— I don’t know. A little bit of support. From you.”

“I’m not belittling you,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I’m telling you that this is the one thing that I cannot help you with unless you want me to lie, and I know that you don’t. And for some reason  _that matters to me_.”

The Dark Lord left then, and for the first time he could remember, Harry resented him.

*

There were  _so many things_  that required his attention. Papers to be signed, documents to be read over, a funeral to organize, a will to sort out – thankfully not everything would need to be done immediately. When he had done this after Lily’s death – or rather, when he had dragged James around, making sure everything would be taken care of – things had been easier.

Sirius took a deep breath, feeling slightly dizzy. He couldn’t think of Harry without thinking of James, and thinking of James was… it wasn’t something he wanted to do.

What he wanted to think even less about was the Dark Lord, and the small clues Sirius was finding that implied some sort of interest the man held towards Harry. Even if him recommending Harry as the Durmstrang Champion was just a fluke, him knowing how to apparate to the Potter Manor was definitely not. Why did the man even know about the location? Not for James’s sake, Sirius was certain of that.

Did this have something to do with the fact that their wands were brothers? It had been years, but what if the Dark Lord—

“Lord Black,” the witch behind the counter said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Your papers were successfully moved to the archives, and the information has been registered. If you could just fill out this application here—”

“What is it for?”

“Changing the necessary information regarding your new ward, Harry Potter. Things such as his home address and anything else you find to be outdated.”

“And then I’m done?”

“Yes, Mr. Black. This is the last paper. In case you’re in need of any funeral arrangement assistance, the office down the corridor—”

“Thank you,” Sirius said, interrupting her again. “But the funeral has been taken care of.” That was a lie, but for the life of him Sirius couldn’t bring himself to plan James’s funeral. Who would he even invite? Unlike Lily, and despite his popularity at Hogwarts, James hadn’t had many friends for years. Whatever friends he had had before Lily’s death were long gone by now.

Not to mention that Harry would need to go back to school in a matter of days and there simply wouldn’t be enough time for a proper funeral. Maybe later. Yes, later, when things weren’t so confusing and painful, and James’s death didn’t bring forth so much grief that Sirius could easily drown in it.

 _Circe_. Drown in grief. What a joke.

Was it his fault? Maybe he hadn’t paid enough attention to James. If he had just been there more, dragged the man out more often, maybe then James wouldn’t have— wouldn’t— he would be alive. If only Sirius had made sure that James went to a mind healer after Lily’s death, helped him control his drinking, and just been a better friend, maybe then James would be happy and dating someone else by now.

Instead, he was dead.

Logically, Sirius knew that there was nothing he could have done. He could already hear the mind-healer telling him  _depression is no one’s fault_ , and even though that’s true, Sirius couldn’t quite bring himself to accept it. Sure, he couldn’t cure depression even if he tried, but he could have done something to prevent the s— prevent what had happened.

Sirius walked towards the closest fireplace – he had spent enough time away from Harry, and there was no way to predict what the boy would do on his own. Sirius didn’t even know how the boy would react to the thought of moving permanently to Grimmauld Place. It certainly was good that he’d be going to Hogwarts soon enough – an entirely new environment would help him make new memories rather than dwell in old ones.

Then again, would Harry have the energy to move into Grimmauld Place, only to move out again in a matter of days? Perhaps it’d be better to let him stay at the Potter Manor for the few remaining days of his summer break. As soon as Sirius would see Harry safely in Hogwarts, he would move Harry’s things to Grimmauld Place and seal up the Potter Manor to wait for Harry’s coming of age.

*

It took two days for the anger to appear. And when it did, it filled Harry to the brim.

Sirius would visit often, and he’d talk to Harry, and sometimes Harry would talk to him. There was a rift between them, however, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he’d eventually lose Sirius, too. Everything had begun with distance, after all. Physical distance between him and his mother, emotional distance between him and his father, and now it seemed like Sirius, too, would disappear behind  _some_  sort of distance.

He had tried – seven times so far – to go to the train station to look for his father. His first three attempts were spectacular failures: he hadn’t managed to concentrate enough to get to the train station. When he finally had managed to go there, something unfamiliar had pulled him right back. Something Harry hadn’t experienced before. He didn’t know what to call it – didn’t even know what it _was_. It felt like a chain of some sort that Harry just couldn’t shake off or break.

The thought of James being in the train station and Harry missing the last chance to talk to him made the boy even more frustrated, which in turn made him angrier. The chain worried him, baffled him. He didn’t know why it had suddenly appeared – was it Tom’s doing, somehow?

Harry had never thought that he’d feel this much anger. It wasn’t the feeling he got when he thought of innocent lives lost for the sake of political agendas, and it wasn’t the feeling he got when he thought of the inequality within the magical world. This feeling was ugly, heavy, and made him restless.

Three days before Harry’s departure to Durmstrang, Sirius came to his room and sat by the bed. The man’s face was pale and exhausted, and Harry wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know what his godfather had to say.

“Hey,” Sirius started. “We need to talk.”

“That’s always a good start,” Harry told him, sighing heavily. “How are you holding up?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Sirius said quietly. “I can manage, I promise you. How are you doing?”

Harry stared at the ceiling for a few silent moments, before he finally sighed and turned to look at Sirius. “It was easier to be strong when mum died, because there was someone to be strong for,” the boy whispered. “But now I just… I don’t know how I’m doing. I’m angry right now and it hurts so much that I just try to not think about it.”

“Do you still want to participate in the Triwizard Tournament?” Sirius asked. It was hard to believe that this was the first time he had actually spoken to Harry about the thing, but—

“Might as well,” Harry replied. “He won’t be clapping in the stands, though. Then again, I doubt he would have been anyway.”

“The Dark Lord recommended you,” Sirius said warily, looking at Harry’s expression. The boy grimaced at the mention of the Dark Lord, and huffed with evident irritation.

“I wonder what that will do for me in the future.”

“People will know you, that’s for sure. Are you prepared?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “That feels like my standard answer to everything, these days. I don’t know how I’m feeling, I don’t know if I’m prepared enough, I don’t know if I _care_ about being prepared enough.”

“Hey,” Sirius sighed, leaning forward. “It’s you and me now, kid, so don’t do anything reckless. You’re the best family I have.”

“You’re the only family I have,” Harry said. “Now with James gone.”

 _‘James,’_  Sirius thought.  _‘For how long has it been James and not Dad?’_ “About his funeral—”

“Who’s invited?”

“Nobody.”

At this, Harry sat up and shot his godfather an incredulous look. Sirius didn’t say a thing, waiting for the boy to ask his questions. What Harry did instead was squeeze his eyes shut, and take in a shuddering breath, before exhaling slowly. His fingers tugged at his fringe, in a hauntingly familiar gesture.

“Why?”

“Because there won’t be a funeral,” Sirius said simply. “He’s been buried already, next to your mother. Later, when we have more time and can be there without hating him for what he did—”

“You didn’t ask for my opinion,” Harry interrupted, feeling hollow. Should he be angry? Should he be relieved? “ _Do_  you hate him for what he did?”

Sirius stared at him for a few long minutes, before he sighed and leaned back on his chair. “I resent him, but I’d like to think that that will pass. I just… don’t  _understand_.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking down at his hands, “I don’t understand either.”

*

The day of departure was sunny and warm and it irritated Harry in ways weather didn’t often do.

“You won’t be boarding the train to Hogwarts, will you?” Sirius asked, helping the boy shrink his trunk.

“No,” Harry replied. “Headmaster Karkaroff said we will all use our portkeys and go back to Durmstrang, and take the ship from there. Unnecessary hassle, I say, but I guess he wants to use the rare opportunity to show off the damn ship.”

“Appearances matter,” Sirius told him. “The best way to keep people interested is to keep them guessing.”

“Why would I want to keep them interested?”

“For future’s sake. Trust me.”

“I do,” Harry said, looking at his godfather. “I do trust you.”

“I’m glad,” Sirius said, giving him a fond smile. The absence of James was like a void hovering near them, and Sirius didn’t know if ignoring it was for the better. There was a scream of a darker kind boiling right under his ribs; polluted air waiting to be let out. “Remember to take care of yourself, even if you don’t feel like it.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Harry assured him, giving the man a strained smile. “You’ll be at Hogwarts?”

“The whole year,” Sirius promised. “I’ll see you again in a few days, and keep your Saturday evenings free for me, alright? And if you need anything, promise me—”

“Just,” Harry started, shuffling forward. “Just don’t  _leave_ , alright? I can’t— I don’t know what— Just. Promise me you won’t go where I can’t find you.”

Sirius smiled then – it was a sad little smile, barely there. He wrapped his arms around his godson and hugged him tightly.

“You too,” he said. “Be careful. Especially with anything relating to the Dark Lord.”

“Isn’t that everything, then?” Harry said, leaning into the hug. “I’ll be fine, Sirius.”

Sirius wished that he could believe that, but he knew better.

*

How many times would he need to do this?

Peter made his way towards James’s grave slowly, knowing that he had to visit at least once, yet wishing to never arrive. He had waited long enough to make sure that Harry and Sirius were gone, before slowly approaching the cemetery.

Technically, his job was done. Lily and James were both dead, and he should be free to move on to the next… what was it that Dumbledore had said? The next great adventure? Except that Dumbledore had meant the peace of the grave, not the curse of being caught in a constant loop of fulfilling  _one task_ —

The pebbles he was stepping on were uneven and painfully familiar, and once again Peter marvelled at how the most insignificant things never seemed to change, while the important things were never quite the same. The gravestone this time was simple, and Peter wasn’t surprised when he realized that there had not been – and perhaps will not be – a funeral.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, kneeling down. “If they knew what I know, they would not blame you for this. You were a true Gryffindor, to have lasted this long. You were a true Gryffindor, James, even if I'm the only one who knows that. I'm _sorry_."

There were birds chirping nearby, and a soft breeze ruffled what was left of Peter’s hair. There was a faint sound of wind chimes, though Peter knew that there were none of those close enough for him to actually hear them. His watery blue eyes were glassy and sad as he stared at the fresh grave, but there was no trace of remorse in him. He was sorry, like always, that James’s life would always end early, but some things were meant to happen.

Harry being an orphan was something meant to occur. A key ingredient, that’s what it was. Unfortunate but necessary.

(And didn’t that describe the boy’s whole life, really?)

Peter sighed, pressing his palms against his knees as he heaved himself up. Technically, his job was indeed done. Leaving now, however, would mean being stuck in that cursed train station for an unknown amount of time, waiting for the next tide to take him.

The least he could do was wait until he was sure that James had boarded a train and left. 


	28. Chapter 28

The ship was huge and ugly, with an inelegant and sturdy build and billowing red flags. It didn’t look particularly new or well-maintained, resembling more so a nightmare in the shape of a ship than anything else. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be amused; all he could feel was a cycle of emotions consisting of hollow exhaustion, burning anger, and grief so deep it felt endless.

“Never mind getting over the ocean,” Mette Erling muttered, walking in front of Harry and next to Anthony Lestrange. “How are we supposed to get over those  _colours_?”

“I don’t think it’s bad,” someone said. “It has, uh, character.”

"It could be worse," said the only seventh year student in the group, a girl whose name Harry had already forgotten. She was a tall girl with an easy smile and deceptively kind brown eyes. "Besides, the trip won't take more than a few hours, we won't have to be inside for long. You also know that we'll live in the castle."

"I envy them for that, to be honest," Maria Rurik - Harry wouldn't have remembered her either, had she not introduced herself again earlier - said. "Living in a _castle_. Must be nice."

"They have to share their rooms," Lestrange sneered, ignoring the blatantly appreciative looks Erling was giving him. "They have common bathrooms, no private kitchens or sleeping areas. How is _that_ better than what we have?"

"Hey," Truls whispered, his fingers tight around Harry's own. "You seem down, did something happen?"

"No," Harry said, the lie heavy and sour in his mouth. "Just a little bit nervous about going to Hogwarts."

"It'll be fine," Truls assured him quietly, "You said your godfather will be there, didn't you? And you already know people who study there, so you needn't worry. Will your dad be dropping by at some point? Did you two sort things out?" At the mention of his dad, Harry took in a sharp breath and dug his nails into Truls's hand so hard that the other boy couldn't help but let go with a startled grimace.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly, his heart hammering in his chest. "I just. There. No. No, my dad won't be coming. Let's not talk about him, though." Any mention of James - the mere  _thought_  of him - made the unreasonable anger bubble inside Harry again. He didn't understand it and felt guilty for feeling angry.

His dad— He— Was feeling angry  _wrong_?

"Alright, roll call!" Headmaster Karkaroff hollered as soon as the students were on the ship. The man looked irritated and stressed, and Harry hoped to stay as far away from him as possible. "Malte."

"Present, sir."

"Krum, there. Lestrange, there. Erling?"

"Here!"

"Rurik?"

"Here, sir."

"Kettil? Must be you. Potter? There you are." Karkaroff looked up from the parchment, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "You come highly recommended. I expect you to live up to the standards."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, thinking fleetingly of Tom. Of course the Headmaster would know who recommended him. Did the other professors know, too? Did they... what did they think about it? Harry hoped that he wouldn't be asked about it – what would he say, anyway? He let out a huff of breath and took a step back when Karkaroff began yet another speech on what he expected from Durmstrang's champions. Harry doubted that the man even realized that the ship had begun moving already.

"Once we arrive, we will be led to their general dining area while the house-elves will take care of our luggage," Karkaroff said. "Make sure that from the first moment onward, Durmstrang will show nothing but unity, dignity, power, and superiority. You're not like the students of Hogwarts, and you're not like the students of Beauxbatons. You've been selected and recommended, you've been given the best possible education a witch or wizard could hope for, and even though you will be attending classes with the other students, you will also be tutored by your own teachers in order to keep your learning up to date."

Harry's attention drifted away from the Headmaster, and he took a look at the students he was standing with. Viktor was perhaps the only one who didn't portray an attitude of effortless confidence, but being a Quidditch star would already put him a head above the rest everywhere they went. When Harry glanced at Lestrange, who was standing behind Krum, he was startled to see the boy staring at him.

Anthony Lestrange was quite tall, and his platinum blond hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. His eyes were a shade of grey so light they were nearly white, and to be looked at by those eyes with such concentration was  _unnerving_. Harry could see why people would call him handsome - he certainly was. But attractive he simply _wasn't_.

Perhaps it had to do with what Harry knew of Anthony's personality by now - vicious, arrogant, egocentric, and rude - but he found the older boy nearly repulsive. The thought of having to perhaps share a living area with him didn't make Harry feel any better.

Lestrange finally looked away, and Harry leaned a bit closer to Truls.

"Let me repeat this again," Karkaroff said, looking at the students with a sullen face. "If you have a problem with someone in the group, you will wait until we're out of Hogwarts to sort it out. I don't care what kind of a problem it is, but you won't put our show of unity at risk for your personal grievances."

_'Okay, that's actually good to hear.'_

"I know how cunning you are," Karkaroff continued. "I know how clever you can be. I know that if you can't attack openly, you'll manipulate someone else to do it for you, or you will find some other indirect way to make your target suffer. But know this: the moment any of you is targeted or steps out of line, I'll be interrogating all of you under the effect of Veritaserum. Understood?"

"Isn't that a bit excessive?" Malte said, sounding wary.

"You can avoid it by obeying the rules," Karkaroff told her. "Are there any questions? Is there anything you disagree with? No? Good. We will arrive in six hours - make sure you'll be presentable by then. You’re free to explore the ship as you see fit, but the lounging area is below the deck."

 _‘Six hours,’_  Harry thought, following Truls and the others to the designated lounge.  _‘Six hours and then it starts. It’ll be good to see Luna again. Draco and Ron too. I wonder if they know about what happened? Why would they? There wasn’t a funeral and I doubt that James spoke to the Malfoys or the Weasleys.’_

Harry shook his head and took a deep breath. He knew some of what would be waiting for him at Hogwarts, and he knew that allowing James’s death to become a distraction was unacceptable. He should deal with the surges of unexplainable anger, the stress, and the sleeplessness, and simply focus on the Tournament and impressing Tom.

And yet, James’s suicide overshadowed everything else.

*

“I can’t _believe_ this is happening,” Ron Weasley whispered, staring at the students of Beauxbatons. They had arrived in fancy carriages less than an hour earlier, and the redhead has yet to look away from the Ravenclaw table where they were seated. “I want to participate. Think one of them would say yes to a date if I became the Hogwarts Champion? Do you think I could date one of them?”

“I’m sure you could,” Neville Longbottom said, smiling awkwardly at his friend. He glanced at the French girls, not denying the fact that they were indeed very beautiful. "Aren't they a little bit intimidating, though?"

"If you find them intimidating, what are you going to do about the Durmstrang students?" Ron snorted. "I wonder if Harry's coming as well. I heard they're supposed to be here at six? That's like... five minutes away."

"I've been reading about Durmstrang," Hermione hurried to tell them, lowering her voice. "It's really said to be an elite school."

"Well,  _yeah_ ," Ron said. "The best of the best study there. Nobody can buy their way in - they have to earn it. Which is why Malfoy is here and not there. I saw Harry last Christmas with a friend of his - the guy was _scary_ even though he was our age. Arrogant as Malfoy, with a crazy look in his eyes."

“Harry seemed really nice, though.”

“He is.”

"Susan told me, that her aunt told her," Lavender started, joining the conversation eagerly, "that even though the Durmstrang students will join some classes with us, they will still have their own tutors. Apparently their curriculum is a lot tougher than ours and to them Hogwarts education is inadequate!"

"Oh," Hermione sighed wistfully. "How I wish..."

"They accept only purebloods, though," Lavender told her with a sympathetic expression. "Sometimes half-bloods, if they are recommended by someone famous. I've heard that the Lestrange heir also studies there. Now _there's_ a guy any girl would love to wrap around her little finger!"

Right then, the doors of the Great Hall were suddenly pushed open, catching the attention of the students in the hall. "Sir," the groundskeeper said, stumbling in. "Headmaster Yaxley, sir. The guests from Durmstrang are here."

 _'They're here,'_  Ron though, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.  _'I wonder what they're like.'_

A tall, dark-haired man wearing a fur-rimmed coat walked in, followed by seven students and two professors. Ron took in the sight of well-tailored uniforms and the coat of arms, before he focused on the students themselves. It was easy to recognize Anthony Lestrange - the bastard had quite the reputation and wasn't particularly liked even by the rich pureblood Slytherins. Behind him stood Viktor Krum, and it took Ron a while to convince himself that the Quidditch player was actually  _there_ , and that he wasn't hallucinating. The whispers around them were becoming louder, and even the French students were eyeing the Quidditch star with appreciative glances.

There were several people Ron didn’t know, and a blond boy he remembered from Mrs. Potter’s funeral few years ago. And there, right next to that vaguely familiar stranger, stood Harry.

“He’s there,” Ron whispered, and Hermione turned to look with a smile on her face. Ron looked at his friend, noticing the grim expression, pale complexion, and the tension of his posture. Had he not met Harry a relatively short time ago he wouldn’t have necessarily noticed any of this, but the boy standing there was different from the boy he had met at the Quidditch Cup.

“Our friends from the North!” Yaxley crowed, smiling at the newcomers. “Headmaster Karkaroff! I welcome you and the students of Durmstrang to Hogwarts!”

“Much honoured, my friend,” Headmaster Karkaroff said, stepping further into the hall, followed by his students. “To think that such a glorious event is but a short time away from us. Everyone here must be  _very_  excited.”

“There’s something seriously sleazy about that guy,” Ron whispered, and Neville nodded in agreement. They watched silently as the Durmstrang students were given seats at the closest table – Hufflepuff, of all Houses – and after a few moments they begun eating.

“This welcome could have been organized better,” Hermione said, and Neville nodded with a frown on his face.

“It’s unusually… brief.”

“It feels kind of deliberate,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense, though. Why would Headmaster Yaxley want to piss off the Headmaster of Durmstrang?”

“Who knows,” Ron said, “maybe to prove a point or something?”

“That’s probably it,” Lavender agreed. “I’m so happy that tomorrow is Saturday – we’ll get time to talk with the other students during breakfast. Maybe even Anthony Lestrange. I could show him Hogsmeade if he wanted.”

“Why would you want to talk with  _him_?” Ron wondered, shaking his head. “Nope, Harry’s the one I want you guys to meet properly.”

“I’d love to meet Harry again,” Hermione admitted, looking at the dark-haired boy who was eyeing the food in front of him with a contemplative expression. The other boy, the blond one Hermione remembered from the Quidditch Cup, was talking to him and it was clear to her that the two were very close.

 _‘I’m a little bit jealous,’_  the girl thought wistfully.  _‘I wonder what the Durmstrang Library is like.’_

*

“The food was decent,” Maria Rurik sighed, walking next to Harry as the Durmstrang students were led towards their rooms. The prefect walking in front of them was a boy who had blushed furiously when introduced. He barely managed to keep his eyes off Mette Erling, who took in the boy’s reaction with amused disdain. “Those roasted potatoes. Oh  _yeah_.”

“Never mind the potatoes, we have class tomorrow at seven in the morning,” Mette said, scowling. “I thought we’d have our Saturdays free here! Is there no justice in this world?”

“Why can’t we start at nine?” Ingrid agreed, sighing heavily. “I can’t _wait_ to graduate.”

“Can it, Malte. You’re nearly done anyway.”

“Headmaster wants our private classes to be done before most of the Hogwarts students are up,” Lestrange explained. “We have a week’s time to settle into a routine here. After that they will finally inform us properly of the Tournament and what to do.”

 _‘A week to settle. I hope that won’t involve too much socializing,’_ Harry thought tiredly. He wouldn’t mind bumping into Ron or Luna or Draco, but right now he simply didn’t have the energy for any meetings with new people.

“Here we are,” the prefect suddenly said, stopping in front of a painting that showed nothing but an empty field and a round, pale yellow moon. “The password is ‘King’s pudding.’ Feel free to change it whenever, but if you do, make sure everyone who needs to know it, knows.”

“You have a special talent in making English sound like nonsense to me,” Mette told the boy, a mean smile on her face while she shooed him away with a wave of her hand. “Dismissed.” The prefect gave her a startled look before he stumbled away, as if being dismissed in such a manner was the strangest thing to happen for him.

 _‘I suppose this is why Björn likes her,’_  Harry thought, leaning heavily against Truls. _‘I wonder what the others are doing in Durmstrang right now.’_

“King’s pudding,” Maria said, clearly amused by the password. The surface of the painting rippled and after a moment of hesitation, the girl stepped through, followed by the others. The common room inside was rather pleasant looking; it was big, with two fireplaces and comfortable couches in shades ranging from earthy brown to dark orange. There were thick carpets on the floors, decorative curtains on the windowless walls, and bookshelves floating near the ceiling, waiting to be called down.

“Not bad,” Ingrid said. “I like it. I wonder where we’re supposed to sleep, though?”

“They’re not going to make us  _share_  rooms, are they?” Maria gasped, noticing only two doors at the back of the room. With a horrified whine the girl rushed forward to take a look.

“I did say it before,” Anthony Lestrange said, suddenly standing next to Harry. “They have dormitories here, not private apartments.”

“I suppose we’ll just get to know each other better,” Mette said, winking at Krum, who seemed to try and shrink into himself.

“I’m looking forward to that,” Lestrange said, and turned to give Harry a smile that was far too easy and practiced to be sincere. Harry contemplated smiling in return, but then only sighed and leaned further into Truls.

“You’re Harry Potter,” Lestrange continued, not deterred by Harry’s silence. “I didn’t expect you to be nominated. Who did you get to vouch for you?”

“That’s none of your business,” Truls said, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “What matters is that we’re here now, not who got us here.”

“I disagree,” Lestrange sneered, the pretence of friendliness disappearing in an instant. “Who got us here matters very much, for various reasons—”

“Hey,” Mette said sharply, interrupting the beginning of an argument. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed. We can talk about this nonsense tomorrow. Kettil, don’t pick fights with him. Anthony,  _darling_ , you know what Headmaster Karkaroff said. I’m pretty sure that baiting falls into the category of what he warned us about.”

“I’m pretty sure you calling me darling is going to be a problem as well,” Lestrange replied, scowling. He then levelled Truls with a glare, before focusing on Harry again. “You can speak for yourself, can’t you?”

 _‘I’m too tired to get angry,’_  Harry thought, and sighed. “I don’t think that picking fights with any of us is going to be for anyone’s benefit. We’re at a disadvantage here. Who knows what the Hogwarts students have been told about the Tournament. For all we know—”

“Yaxley isn’t above setting us up just to stick it to Headmaster Karkaroff,” Lestrange finished for him. The boy then stared at Harry for a few moments silently, before he nodded. “Very well, Potter. I see your point.”

“Only one of us will participate in the tournament, anyway,” Ingrid reminded the others. “So whoever does get picked, we all must support that person and make sure they win.”

“Could we just all agree to go to sleep now and return to discuss this issue tomorrow?” Mette asked, walking towards one of the doors and opening it. “Maria, you’re  _not_  taking that bed. I want it!”

“My bags were on this bed, Erling. It’s meant for me!”

Truls sighed, and pulled Harry with him towards the other room. It was nicely decorated, though nothing impressive in his opinion: the room was large and square, with two beds on each side of the room. A door in the far corner led to a spacious bathroom.

There were no bookshelves – floating or otherwise – but the ceiling showed a cloudy night sky. The carpets covering the stone floors were thick and soft, and the walls were made of dark wood. 

“This is ridiculous,” Lestrange huffed, walking towards one of the beds and sitting down on it. “They sure are roughing it here, aren’t they?”

“It’s a bit strange, though,” Truls said. “With as much space as they have in the castle… it’s not like they couldn’t afford giving each student their own room.”

“It’s to teach unity, I think,” Viktor said, speaking slowly and carefully pronouncing each word. Harry felt a wave of fondness towards the other boy, and couldn’t help but find his way of speaking utterly charming.

“I am so glad that I got into Durmstrang,” Truls declared, digging out a change of clothes from his trunk. “Didn’t you almost come here, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied tiredly. “My parents studied here. That’s why.” His parents. Lily and James. Just thinking of them – thinking of  _James_  – made Harry feel cold and tired.

“My situation was the same,” Lestrange revealed. “After some contemplation Durmstrang seemed like the better option after all. I haven’t regretted my choice.”

 _‘Well, yeah,’_ Harry thought. Of all the choices he regretted, the choice to attend Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts didn’t even come close to the top.

*

“Look at them, staring,” Mette Erling sneered from behind her cup of creamy coffee. “So rude and tactless!”

“Mingling so much with Mudbloods has clearly left an impression,” Lestrange agreed. “And look at how scruffy they are. Some must have woken up only minutes ago.”

“Well, it’s not like they had to get up to study at the crack of dawn,” Maria Rurik said smoothly. “And don’t use that word in polite company, Anthony.” Right then, Ingrid Malte arrived, taking a seat between Viktor and a Hufflepuff boy who seemed too dazed by their presence to eat.

“Where were you?” Mette asked.

“Talking with Headmaster Karkaroff,” Ingrid replied. “They’ll start the Champion Selection on Monday. He didn’t give me any details but apparently we all put our names into some bowl and in a week the name of one student from each school will be picked out.”

“The Goblet of Fire,” Lestrange said. “My aunt Bellatrix mentioned it to me once. It’s a good choice: ancient and filled to the brim with strong magic.”

“E-excuse me,” a squeaky voice suddenly said, and they all turned to see a tiny boy with wide blue eyes, holding a quill and a parchment, standing next to Viktor. “D-do you mind, um… C-could you sign this, please?”

“All right,” Viktor said, and Harry could tell that the Quidditch star felt incredibly awkward. He sighed, shaking his head before leaning tiredly against Truls. He felt so drained.

“Are you done eating?” Truls asked, and Harry nodded.

“Yeah, I’m full. I didn’t feel hungry to begin with, to be honest.”

“Let’s go for a walk, then.”

“Be back at our common room by five,” Ingrid told them. “Headmaster Karkaroff will give us our schedules – the classes we’ll be attending with the students here, that is – and talk to us about other important things.”

“We’ll be there,” Truls promised, before pulling Harry gently with him. “See you all later.”

They left the Great Hall and were less than fifty feet away from it when Harry heard a familiar voice calling his name. Ron, followed by Neville, Hermione, and a girl with honey blond curls and bright blue eyes, walked towards them.

“So good to see you, mate!” Ron said cheerfully, and for a moment Harry was enveloped in a tight hug that made something inside him shake and hurt. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Ron to let go of him instantly, or if he wanted to ask for more hugs in the future.

The moment Ron let Harry go, Truls’s arm was around Harry’s shoulders, and the Swedish boy glared at the redhead with a vicious expression. Ron grinned sheepishly, unsure of what had prompted such a reaction, before deciding to simply focus on Harry.

“How are you? Liking Hogwarts so far?”

“It’s great,” Harry replied, ignoring the first question. “This is Truls, by the way. Truls, these are Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom and… Hermione Granger, was it? And… I’m sorry, but—”

“Lavender Brown,” the girl said with a sunny smile, thrusting her hand forward. “ _So_  pleased to meet you both!”

“We’ve heard so many exciting things about Durmstrang,” Granger said, stepping forward. “Is it true that your schedule is far more demanding than the standard curriculums?” Harry tried to smile, remembering vaguely her having asked the same question before.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ron groaned. “Don’t ask them about school! Talk about Quidditch instead!”

“We’re going to attend some of the classes with you guys,” Harry said, and Granger smiled again. “Potions, I think. And Transfiguration. And Charms.”

“Our Professor McGonagall – she teaches Transfiguration – is extremely talented,” Granger told him. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

“Do you guys have a Quidditch pitch here?” Truls wanted to know, and Ron shrugged.

“We had,” the boy replied. “But now it’s been turned into some sort of a lake. Something to do with the Triwizard Tournament, I bet.”

“Some sort of a lake?” Harry repeated. “What sort, exactly?”

“The water is weird,” Ron explained. “Some days it looks like thick, liquid silver, and some other days it’s some sort of yellow fog.”

“Once it was a mirror,” Neville piped in. “Some guys from Hufflepuff claimed that they had seen it turn into fire but, well, nobody can tell for sure. It’s strictly off limits and guarded night and day.”

“It could be one of those spells that needs time to settle,” Granger said, and Truls nodded, thinking of the different options and possibilities.

“I wonder if the teachers know,” the boy said. “Or if only the tournament organizers know what’s going on.” Harry thought of Sirius briefly, wondering if he was in the castle or elsewhere, before he sighed and shook his head. The hollowness inside him was aching, and the constant change from sad to angry to indifferent made him feel very drained.

“We’ll find out eventually,” he said. “Are any of you going to apply to become the champion of Hogwarts?”

“We can’t,” Granger told him, tucking a stray brown curl back behind her ear. “Not that I would, anyway.”

“Headmaster Yaxley set an age limit, you see,” Ron explained, sounding annoyed. “We heard about it a little while ago, otherwise I would have applied. Only sixth and seventh year students can participate. They don’t think that anyone else is prepared well enough.”

“That’s a pity,” Harry said, unsure of what else to add. He wondered if James had felt awkward while interacting with people before he— Harry wondered if this was how it started: with distance and discomfort. The thought made him feel sick, and he resisted the urge to flee.

“What’s your schedule like?” Granger asked, then. “If you don’t have anywhere to be right now, we could show you the different classrooms?”

“We haven’t gotten our schedules yes,” Harry replied. “Headmaster Karkaroff will hand them out later on today.”

“I hope we’ll have some classes together,” Granger said with a bright smile. “We can compare them tomorrow at breakfast, then. Would you two – and the rest of your schoolmates, of course – like to eat with us at the Gryffindor table?”

“We’ll see,” Truls said. The thought of Anthony Lestrange sitting at the Gryffindor table suddenly occurred to Harry, and it almost made him smile.

*

Sirius took a step back and resisted the temptation to shrug off his coat. The exertion had made him sweat under the layers of clothing, and to maintain the balance of his spells he couldn’t cast a cooling charm on himself. He had worked on setting up the final touches for several hours, and the work was very nearly completed.

“Nicely done,” Bellatrix said, eyeing the surface covering the previously grassy grounds of the Quidditch Pitch. “Lippershey’s Lake, eh? Didn’t know you knew how to set that one up.”

“A few runes here and there, Bella, it’s not that difficult,” Sirius replied, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “What brings you here? You won’t be introduced to the students until Monday.”

“Just taking a walk,” the witch said, a deceptively pleasant smile on her lips. “Hoping to perhaps bump into a champion candidate or two.”

“Especially the one  _you_  nominated?” Sirius asked, thinking of Harry. “Are you ever going to explain that to me?”

“The Potter boy,” Bellatrix sighed, leaning against the wooden stand. “Think of what he could _become_. How the tournament could change him. A British wizard, eyes like a bad omen, and education from the _best_ school of magic in the world. He’s too soft now, but after the tournament he won’t be.”

Sirius bit his lip, feeling conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to argue against what Bellatrix was saying. He didn’t want to think of Harry doing the tasks he had designed. He didn’t want to change Harry that way, especially now that the boy was already changing due to what James had done.

But on the other hand… Sirius didn’t  _disagree_  with Bellatrix.

“The Dark Lord also nominated him,” Sirius revealed, and turned to look at his cousin. The information was clearly new to the woman, and she didn’t bother to hide her surprise. Soon the expression shifted to glee, and she threw her head back, laughing loudly.

“See!” Bellatrix crowed. “If the Dark Lord agrees with me, he must have seen in the boy what I did as well. Once again  _I_  am the one who stands by the Dark Lord and understands him like no other can. We have the boy figured out, we do.”

“Harry is my godson,” Sirius said, but the words rang hollow. “He… he’s my ward now.”

“I heard about James Potter,” Bellatrix told him. “It’s not public knowledge yet. Someone had it covered quite fast. The boy is under your influence now, cousin. Do with it what you may. With any luck you can turn him into one of us soon.”

“One of us,” Sirius snorted. “And what’s that? Everyone from Durmstrang is a Death Ea—”

“A Black, I mean,” Bellatrix cut him off. “The boy could bring such _honour_ to the family. It’s such a pity that his lineage is rubbish, but something can be done.”

 _‘Hell no,’_  Sirius thought, but said nothing. He sighed and turned back to the fresh Lippershey’s Lake and kneeled down to touch its surface with the tip of his wand. Everything seemed to be as it should, and the flow of the magic was steady and stable.

“Harry is kind,” he suddenly said, after many moments of silence. “I don’t want to take that away from him.”

“He’ll suffer for it, then,” Bellatrix said. “Housewives of Hogsmeade can afford kindness. Bakers and tailors and store owners can afford kindness. Farmers and florists and even some teachers can afford to be kind. An orphan boy with a relatively worthless lineage and an education from Durmstrang doesn’t have that luxury. Not in this world. Not with what will be expected of him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Sirius said with a scowl. “He’s barely fourteen.”

Bellatrix pursed her lips and readjusted her hat with a few sharp tugs. She didn’t speak, but her silence said enough.

*

“This Monday,” Karkaroff started, looking at the Durmstrang Champion candidates around him, “you will be given the precise information on how the tournament will proceed. The judges will also be introduced. Remember to treat them with the utmost respect.”

Harry stood quietly between Truls and Mette, and thought of Sirius. Was his godfather one of the judges? If not, then who?

“You are not here to struggle alongside the students of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons,” Karkaroff continued. “You’re here to surpass them and show your audience the difference between Durmstrang and the rest of the magical schools. You will be the very vision of unity and power. You are what others aspire to become.”

 _‘I really hope not,’_  Harry thought, fleetingly imagining Luna at Durmstrang. Then he thought of Petronella and Filippa, and the ache in his heart grew stronger.

“You were informed earlier that you will be attending some classes with the Hogwarts students,” Karkaroff said. “Professor Heiner will tell you more about that.”

“Thank you, Igor,” Professor Heiner said, stepping forward. “I have taught Arithmancy to all of you and know that each one of you seven is a hardworking and intelligent student. I do not think that you will struggle with the curriculum of Hogwarts.”

 _‘I hope so, at least,’_ Harry thought.  _‘Despite how much they keep implying that Hogwarts isn’t up to the Durmstrang standard, what do they really know from what is being taught here?’_

“That said,” Professor Heiner continued. “If any of you feel the need for any additional information regarding what is being taught, approach either Professor Wieland or me with your questions. You will study alongside the students of your own year level. Take for example, Miss Malte; you will be studying with the seventh year students. Here is your schedule.”

Ingrid reached forward and accepted a slip of paper before moving a bit to the side to inspect it more carefully. Professor Heiner carried on:

“Misters Krum and Lestrange, and Miss Erling, you will be studying with the sixth year students. Here are your schedules. Stick together at all times and remember to show a united front.” The advice made the polite smile on Lestrange’s face turn sour, and Harry could only imagine what the wizard had been planning.

“Miss Rurik, you will be studying with the fifth year students.” After handing Maria her schedule, Professor Heiner looked at Truls and Harry with a serious expression. “You two are the first students of what has become known as Durmstrang’s trademark: the best of the best. You  _will_  aim for absolute excellence. You will study harder than anyone else and stand united no matter what comes your way. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Harry and Truls said. Heiner didn’t quite smile, but his expression was a smidge more pleasant than it had been before, as he handed the two boys their schedules.

“Oderint, dum metuant,” Heiner said, and to Harry the motto of Durmstrang had never sounded as ominous as it did then.

Let them hate, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's lesson (or more like, what I'm hinting at): Just because a parental figure loves you, doesn't mean they know what's best for you.


	29. Chapter 29

"My Lord."

Sirius Black knelt on the wooden floor, in front of Lord Voldemort's throne, looking impeccable as always. Had Tom not known of the recent tragedy in the Death Eater's life, he wouldn't have made note of the signs of exhaustion Black subtly - and perhaps unconsciously - expressed. Nagini was lying on a carpet nearby, and her presence was clearly making the grieving man nervous. Just as well, people tended to be more honest when they were too nervous to come up with believable lies.

"My Lord," he said, his voice calm and steady. "The preparations for the Triwizard Tournament are ready. Tomorrow we will inform all the participants of the stages in the event, as well as introduce the judges and most prominent attendees."

"I have seen your plans," Tom said, gesturing for him to stand up. "I approve of your ideas, Sirius, as well as the other two judges you have selected. However, do remind the champion candidates and their families of the risks involved in participating. I do not want to waste time afterwards dealing with unhappy families should some harm befall any of the children."

"Absolutely, my Lord," Sirius hurried to say, scrambling up. "We have already prepared contracts for the champions to manage any possible consequences of the tournament."

"Have you gone through the finances of the event with Carrow? I believe she was assigned to help you with the budgeting."

"Yes, she's well aware of the management of the resources, and personally assisted me in all matters concerning sponsorships and partners."

"In that case," Tom sighed, resisting the temptation to rub his eyes and yawn. "You’re free to go."

Perhaps he would have had more energy and enthusiasm for the tournament at this time had he not spent the previous seven hours discussing issues relating to the war fronts in a series of rather intense meetings. The involvement of Regulus Black has yet to be confirmed, despite it being quite clear to Tom that the man behind some of the most brilliant strategies _had_ to be him. The Rebels had struck in Spain five times and in Holland once in patterns that seemed erratic and random at first, yet turned out to be extremely calculated after a while.

The Rebels were either growing stronger or becoming more desperate. Either way, it was making them bolder and that just was not acceptable.

He had, clearly, been dealing with the war far too lightly. Granted, he had had other issues to focus on, but Tom had grown tired of fooling around with traitors who truly believed that they could win, that they could even come _close_ to the heights of his power. No, the Triwizard Tournament will be the beginning of the end for the Rebels, and what could be a better way to start than by using the champions? It'd involve nations, and if a Rebel attacked a champion, the people would be up in arms to have them truly erased.

The Rebels would become the enemies of the _people_ , not just the government.

The thought was enough to bring a smile to the Dark Lord's face. The thought of Harry fighting against one of the Rebels was something Tom definitely wanted to see. If the boy became the Champion of Durmstrang, Tom would lend him a hand to make sure that he would indeed manage to deal with any Rebel that would cross his way. Perhaps he could even use the opportunity to make the boy get over his father's passing. As long as the process didn't require tears or heart-to-heart talks about families.

Tom couldn't really relate - couldn't imagine - what Harry was feeling. When he had killed his own father, Tom had most definitely _not_ been sorry or sad. Harry's situation was, however, very different. The books had made repeated mentions of anger and anger management, and was there a better target for shaping a warrior than an angry boy with an agenda? Sure, Harry had told him that he didn't believe in revenge, but such nonsense was easily fixable.

The boy was clever, and his loyalty to his relatively unclear moral ideology was strong, which already made him a risky piece on the chessboard. If nothing else, then the Triwizard Tournament would disillusion him at least partly. Showing him the ugly side of the Rebels would prevent him from trying to sympathize with them.

The man briefly entertained the idea of making Bellatrix train Harry before dismissing it. The task would need far subtler manipulation than what Bellatrix was willing to do - not incapable, just deliberately careless - and she wouldn't be able to convince Harry to finally accept Tom's ideas.

This was something Tom would need to do personally. He hadn't planned on attending the introductory event on Monday due to not having the time for it. However, he could drop by later on that week for a few hours to talk with the Potter boy about the possibility of training. It wouldn't be much, of course. Tom didn't like the idea of sharing any of his secrets, but he could teach the boy a few simple tricks that would at least prevent him from getting killed.

 _"Are you in pain?"_ Nagini hissed, sounding as concerned as a snake could. Which, admittedly, wasn't very concerned. _"You're making a strange face. Stranger than usual, that is."_

"I'm thinking," Tom replied, closing his eyes and leaning back on the chair. What he wouldn't do for a few hours of sleep.

 _"Well, that would explain it,"_ Nagini hissed, before she let out a sound that Tom had grown to think of as laughter. He scowled at the snake.

"Go away," he groaned, and yawned. "You don't know how lucky you are."

 _"You're the lucky one,"_ the snake replied. _"You and that boy of yours."_

*

It wasn't that the bed was uncomfortable, or even that sharing a room with others was something he wasn't used to. No, Harry was perfectly comfortable where he was, and yet hours passed and sleep evaded him. Each of the other boys seemed to be slumbering peacefully, and Harry could only envy them for that. Tomorrow, early on Monday, their lessons with the Hogwarts students would begin and the thought of being tired then did not sound appealing at all.

Then again, how could he sleep, really? How could he, when his father was dead and he wasn't even sure where he'd end up in a few months? Sure, Sirius would be in charge of him, but the man was a high-ranking Death Eater with a lot of work to do. Tom was, if possible, even busier, and the thought of talking to anyone else made Harry feel anxious.

Even the usually welcome option of talking with Truls made Harry feel somehow trapped rather than relieved. He did wholeheartedly appreciate his friend's support and loyalty, and didn't want the other boy to leave him, truly. And yet the ghost of his arm on Harry's shoulders, his constant presence and overwhelming command of Harry's attention was becoming stifling. Being the center of someone's world was frightening, and Harry did not like it at all.

Despite his feelings of anxiety, Harry couldn't help but feel guilty as well: did this make him a bad friend, to be unable to respond to Truls's attention in equal measure? Besides, who else would he confide in? It wasn't as if he had anyone else, not anymore.

Not since his mother died, really.

Unless... unless Remus Lupin was still there. In Sirius's basement. But really, what kind of a life was it, to live trapped in a cage with stony walls and have everything under scrutiny? Did Sirius monitor Lupin's books like Lily had done? Harry couldn't remember - he barely remembered the werewolf - yet somehow even the vague memories held an impression of kindness and comfort.

 _'Still,'_  Harry thought suddenly.  _'Am I going to complain about James's suicide to a man who has lost far more than I ever have?'_   Because surely James's death wasn't to the world as painful as it was to Harry? He hadn't betrayed them, had he? He hadn't had an obligation to the world, he--

And suddenly, there it was. The anger. Perhaps he should have felt guilty instead - and he did, he felt _guilty all the time_ for so many things he didn't know how to identify - but once anger took a hold of him, it didn't let go easily. It heated his blood and made him shake and while he wasn't usually a violent person, Harry would have gladly punched something right then.

With a few impatient kicks the boy pushed the thick covers off himself, and sat up. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he borrowed the first pair of slippers he saw - Krum's Odgen's Old Firewhisky-sponsored green and black slippers - before continuing his way out of the guest quarters and right into the dark hallways of Hogwarts. He knew that walking out after curfew was against their local rules, but the awareness of that was distant and abstract, as if it had no impact on what he should do.

How many times had James wandered through these corridors, covered by his invisibility cloak? Harry had left that cloak at home, reluctant to have more reminders of James than absolutely necessary. Perhaps he should have taken it with him, at least then he wouldn't need to worry about being seen.

His hands deep in his pockets, Harry wandered aimlessly, half-afraid of getting lost yet not caring enough to memorize the route he had taken. The soft slippers made no sound against the floors and Harry's breathing was the only thing he could hear. In a way, it made him feel better. Alone, but less lonely.

Had James lived just a day longer, would things be different now?

 _'He'd be here,'_  Harry thought, imagining him there, alive. Imagined him standing tall and healthy, with a smile on a tanned face rather than a blank stare on a dead one.  _'He'd be here, and he'd be so happy. He'd tell me about his days at Hogwarts and how he dated mum and how much he loved it here.'_

The boy stopped walking once he reached a hallway with windows showing a glimpse of what had once been the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch. This was the first time he'd seen the changes done to it, and he wondered what it was that he was seeing: a fog of sorts hovering above what looked like a mirror covering the field. Would James have been able to tell him what it was? Would--

"Harry," a familiar voice called quietly, startling the boy. He turned, tense and ready to - to what? To argue? To fight? He wasn't sure. Didn't have to be sure, either, once he saw who the person was.

"Luna," Harry said, trying to smile but not quite succeeding. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"

"It's the perfect time for a walk, don't you think?" Luna said, stepping closer. Her blonde hair was tied with what looked like dyed bandages, and three radishes were tied somehow into her fringe. "I'm sure you agree, why else would you be here too, right?"

"I couldn't sleep," Harry admitted with a shrug. "There's too much going on in my life, I guess."

"This is the wrong place to contemplate such things," Luna told him, slipping her hand into his, and pulling him with her as she started walking again. "Come. I know a place where you can hear your thoughts."

"I'm not sure if I want that," Harry said, following his friend. She gave him a friendly smile, and shook her head.

"Then you can let me hear your thoughts," she said. "Perhaps that would indeed be better."

*

The glass of wine was nowhere near full, yet Sirius couldn't bring himself to drink it. Not after what happened with James, not after seeing how much drinking had hurt him. He had poured himself a few mouthfuls out of habit, and the bottle was still a few feet away, its cork lying perhaps under some chair.

The sun would rise in a few hours and Sirius knew that he should have been asleep, but for the life of him he couldn't manage that. In all likelihood he would take a pepper up potion in a few hours before going to Hogwarts again. There was plenty to do still, even if the preparations were ready. There'd need to be constant maintenance to keep all the spells up, not to mention several guards around the area to prevent any sabotage.

He was now in Grimmauld Place, in his office, surrounded by parchments on the floor and rebel-related newspaper cutouts floating in the air. He was thinking of the tasks the three champions would need to complete, of watching Harry fighting to win, and of how much Lily would have hated it. But Lily hadn't really understood, had she? Despite her attempts, she had never managed to completely accept the reigning ideologies of the Dark Lord's world. Especially the parts where children had to prove themselves, where love wasn't just given but _earned_.

Sirius sighed, pressing his lips against the rim of the wine glass before setting it down again. He thought of James's body, of Harry, and the new room he had renovated for his godson. The room had belonged to Regulus, back when Regulus was still alive and there. Right next to the room was a small office that would serve as the meeting room for Harry and a mind healer's sessions once he got around to arranging those. It was a better option than to arrange for the therapy sessions in a hospital, where nosy people liked to gossip far more than they liked to work.

The wizard sighed heavily once more, and tried to come up with something to distract him from his thoughts and worries. Work wasn't appealing in the least, and though he entertained the idea of reading, he ended up not doing that either. After a moment of contemplation and inspired by a sudden idea, Sirius left his office and headed towards the basement.

Lupin was on his bed, shirtless, his yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Sirius narrowed his eyes before lighting up the place with a flick of his wand, and took in the rumpled state of the caged creature.

"Were you asleep?" he asked.

"I was," Lupin confirmed dryly, but didn't sound particularly upset. "I heard you coming, that woke me up."

Sirius sat down on a chair a few steps away from the iron bars separating them, resisting the bizarre urge to apologize. "Tell me," he said instead, "how many friends have you lost?"

Lupin didn't flinch, but twitched as if surprised. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, their yellow glow was almost gone. "Many," he said. "I've lost many."

"I lost James," Sirius revealed, shaking his head and feeling an ache in his bones. "I buried him without a funeral, as if that's a punishment to a man who punished himself and took it too far."

"James," Lupin repeated. "You don't mean James Potter? Harry's father?"

"You still remember him," Sirius noted, and nodded. "Yes, that James. Harry is... well, he's my ward now. He'll come to live here with us. With _me_ , I mean."

"How is he faring?" Lupin wanted to know, moving to sit on a chair rather than the bed. "Were you there when he was informed of his father's passing?"

"Oh, no," Sirius said, and shrugged. "James committed suicide. Harry found his body."

"Merlin," Lupin breathed, and much to Sirius's surprise the werewolf seemed to be genuinely distressed. "The poor boy. The poor, poor boy."

"I lost a friend, too," Sirius reminded him. "Harry and I will help each other to overcome this."

"No," Lupin said, his voice sharp. "You will not equate the loss of a friend to the loss of a parent. Not when the child lost his mother already, not when his father died the way he did, and not when he was the one to find the body. You both knew James Potter, but do not think your loss is equal."

"He was my best friend. My _brother_."

"You're an adult man," Lupin said, his face not _quite_ in a scowl, but almost. "You have an established life and a career. You have your social standing, your family, and your other friends. You have a whole _network_ that supports you. Harry is a _child_ who lost his only remaining parent. He doesn't have siblings and he seems to be stuck with a godfather who likes to treat him as an adult instead of the child he is."

"Don't speak to me that way," Sirius snapped, fingers itching for his wand. "I can have you thrown out at any moment, and where would you end up then? Dead in a week, that's where!"

"I thought once that you'd make a great parent to young Harry," Lupin continued, "but as I see it, you're more of a child than he is." Sirius's lips were pressed into a tight, grim line as he took in the words thrown at him. He then took a deep breath, shook his head, and rubbed his eyes.

"I didn't come here to be insulted," he said after a few moments of heavy silence. "Weren't you human once? Can't you feel like we do?"

"On the inside, I'm a human still," Lupin told him, his voice speaking of an ache that Sirius couldn't even comprehend. "Talk to Harry, Black. Talk _with_ him. Hug him. Make him know that you won't leave the way his father did."

 _'That's the problem, isn't it?'_  Sirius thought.  _'How can I promise him that?'_  "There's a war outside, you know," he whispered finally. "There's a war, and I'm right in the middle of it."

*

"What is this place?" Harry asked, stepping into a room that was unlike any other he had seen before. The door closed behind him and disappeared, leaving only traces of a door handle etched into an old tree. In front of him was a lake so clear he could see the bottom of it, and a sunset so beautiful it hurt him in a way he didn't think pain could be felt. "How did you find it?"

"It's called the Come and Go Room," Luna told him, sitting down on one of the chairs that were floating on the water, chained to a rock not too far away from the shore. "When you showed me the place for the first time, you called it the Room of Requirement."                                                                                                

" _What_?" Harry asked, kicking off Krum's slippers and sitting down on a chair similar to the one Luna was occupying. His feet were dipped in water and he could hardly believe that he was awake, and not dreaming all this up.

"Oh, not the you who's here with me today," Luna assured him with a bright smile, as if he should know what she was talking about. "I think I've mentioned it before, haven't I? I know you in many places, Harry. I know you here, and I know you where the harps of gold play for your attention, and I know you where you died twice and lived thrice."

"All right," Harry said, not even trying to understand. "Do you often come here to sit and watch the sunset?"

"Oh, not quite," Luna replied. "This room can be entered only when there's a need for it. Sometimes it's here, sometimes it's not, but when you do find it - or it finds you - it will have exactly what you need. Tonight this is what you wanted the most - perhaps not the lake or the sunset, but a place so very different from where we were."

"I didn't know Hogwarts had something like this in it," Harry admitted, thoroughly impressed. Luna nodded, and a radish fell off her hair and into the water.

"I'm afraid that many underestimate Hogwarts," she said. "Not just the building, though. I'm sure you have been told how inferior we are to the students of Durmstrang."

"You're not incorrect," Harry replied, feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no need to be sorry for my sake," the girl assured him brightly, reaching out to pat his arm. "You see, you know it's a mistake, don't you? If you go into the battle underestimating everyone else, you will be caught off guard eventually."

"I know," Harry said, thinking of fighting against a champion from Hogwarts. Would there be a duel between the champions at any point? Harry really hoped not. "But when it matters the most, I seem to... to forget, I guess."

"Try not to," Luna instructed, not unkindly. "You forget that many of the students here have private tutors during the summers. And those do not stick to the curriculum they get judged by. It's been causing problems here for a while, but Headmaster Yaxley doesn't want to get involved."

"You-- ah, yes," Harry stammered. "I know. I... know. I've just... There's a lot I'm still trying to deal with."

"You've been very distracted since you arrived," Luna said, lifting her feet from the water for a few moments before kicking them down again, causing a small splash that seemed to delight her. "I doubt that this is the first night's sleep that you've missed. Many people will look at you and see how vulnerable you are, Harry. I know that's not what you want. I'm sorry."

"Well, I can't stop them from reading me, now can I?" Harry said bitterly. "I've been trying to not let it show, but that's apparently been all in vain."

"You can't stop them from reading you," Luna agreed. "But you can make then read you wrong. How many hearts have been mistaken for cold when they are only sad."

"I _am_ sad," Harry said, and fell silent. The words, spoken aloud like that, echoed and hit him back harder than he thought they would. "Luna, I am _sad_."

"Why is that, Harry?"

"James is dead." And _oh_ , there was the anger again. How did it come and go so fast, Harry didn't know. It drained him like fire that ate away at logs, and yet he was unable to do anything but fuel it.

"He killed himself," Harry continued, his voice loud and sharp and so unlike the way it used to be. "He went and killed himself because he couldn't handle my mum's death. He didn't think about _me_ , now did he? Didn't think of what would happen to _me_ , and even if he did think, he obviously didn't _care_."

His hands were shaking and he kept kicking the water, as if it would deliver his anger through the waves to the man who had used water to die.

"He didn't have the decency to even off himself in Ireland where he spent so many months fighting," Harry spat, vicious and hurt and angry. "No, he had to do it at _home_ , so I would find him. James Potter's last hurrah, wasn't it."

"Do you know why he did it?" Luna asked, and Harry let out an angry, ugly noise.

"I told you," the boy replied. "He couldn't handle my mum's death."

"Had that been the only factor," Luna said carefully, "he would have died sooner. Harry, don't judge your father before you know what he went through."

"I went through the same thing," Harry said instantly. "She was my _mum_ , remember? But he went and kept on being depressed-"

"Was he?" Luna wanted to know. "Depressed, that is. Not simply grieving, but did he suffer from depression?" Harry paused, and thought for a moment.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I don't know for sure. Probably."

"Then," Luna said, "You did not go through the same thing, did you? Depression is far more... _crippling_ than the world would have you believe. I know some of what it can do to people, how it can make someone lose all faith in themselves. I'm not telling you to forgive him. I'm not telling you to do anything, really. But I do suggest you think of James, Harry. Think of him not as the man who abandoned you selfishly, but the man who left you because he believed himself so unworthy of you that death meant to him  _your_  freedom, not his."

*

Harry hadn't managed to sleep, even after his talk with Luna. She had given him a lot to think about, and now he was more confused than ever. It was one thing to be angry and tired all the time, and another thing entirely to be unsure of what he was feeling at all. Thoughts of James were just as stressful as thoughts of Tom, and the train station where he hadn't been for quite a while now.

"You look like you're barely conscious," Mette Erling said the moment she saw him. Her cold fingers were pressed against his cheeks, right below his eyes for an instant, before she let go of him. Her hair was tied into a braid and somehow now, up close, Harry realized how beautiful she was. Curiously, he didn't feel attracted in the least. "Don't move."

Admitting his current inability to sleep, Harr hadn't bothered to return back to his bed, and had been sitting in front of the fireplace ever since he came back from his walk with Luna. He hadn't expected Mette to be the first one to wake up and find him there, and her behaviour towards him had been a surprise. Harry wasn't sure why, but he had expected the girl to simply ignore him.

"Here," Mette said, returning from the girls' room and handing him a small vial. "It's a pepper up potion. Drink it now, and then drink coffee at every available opportunity until seven o'clock. After that brush your teeth, drink a lot of water, and don't eat anything. Go to bed around nine. Is that clear?"

"Uhm, sure," Harry said, eyeing the vial with a speculative expression. The potion looked right, and smelled right, and he doubted that she'd poison him so casually this soon. "Thank you."

"You owe me," she replied, sitting down on the couch next to him, and only then did Harry notice the small bag on her lap. "Are you nervous about the tournament?" she asked.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, watching the girl open her bag and pull out small boxes and vials. "I think I will be after I hear more about it. I... I know how to duel, but I know also that the tasks will test far more than just that. So yes, I am very nervous."

"I'm not," Mette said promptly, and began applying her make up. It was fascinating to watch, her confident strokes and obvious knowledge of where to put what, and how much. "I want to be chosen. I want to show everyone what I'm capable of."

"A lot of people admire you," Harry said, thinking of Björn. "Isn't that something?"

"No," Mette replied, making her eyelashes darker with what looked like a very small brush. "Those boys will grow into men who will adore women the way they adore brooms and stocks. No, I want to be admired the way Bellatrix Lestrange is admired. I want men to shake when I walk past them. I want them to be so full of respect and fear that they won't think of my beauty when they see me."

"Ah," Harry said. He hadn't even known that such a thing was an issue. "Is that why you're... so close to Anthony? Because you... admire Bellatrix so much?"

"Partly," Mette admitted, and paused for a second to shrug and give him a humourless smile. "But also because I really like him. Liking someone is a bit strange, let me tell you. That's something you'll figure out eventually, too."

"I suppose," Harry muttered, and suddenly thought of Clemens. It was quite illogical, how the thought of his friend could make him suddenly feel flustered. There was something, however, that made Harry want to lean his head against the other boy's shoulder and kiss his jaw and touch his hair.

"Perhaps you have someone already?" Mette asked, sounding a lot more interested than a few moments ago. There was a new look in her eyes as she leaned closer. "Who? Is it that Italian girl I've seen you with many times? Or is it someone here?"

"What? No," Harry denied. "You mean Filippa, right? She's one of my best friends, and I'm quite sure that she is not interested in me that way."

"But are you--?"

"No! No, goodness. No, I am not interested in her."

"Hm, all right," Mette said, sounding amused. "Not her, then. Could it be Kettil? Are you into boys? Oh, look at that blush! It seems you are, am I right?"

"It's not Truls either," Harry said, feeling so hot that he had to press his hands against his cheeks. "Circe, must we discuss this?"

"If not now, then we will later," Mette told him. "Is it someone older? I must admit I had a crush on Professor Didi for quite a while, but obviously Anthony is a bit more realistic."

"Older?" Harry repeated, and thought of Tom for a fraction of a moment. "No. Could we... um, not... I mean, we have class soon, don't we? Shouldn't we go and wake the others?"

"I guess," Mette said, not moving from where she was painting a black line on her eyelid with a tiny paintbrush. "Karkaroff will kill us all if we're late for their classes, especially after he decided to not make us wake up earlier for our Durmstrang classes today. So go, wake them up if you want, but you and I will return to this very interesting topic eventually."

What Mette had told him occupied his thoughts for the better part of the morning, up until the Transfiguration professor swept in, decked in dark green robes and seemingly armed with nothing but a feathery hat, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, and a box. The classroom was full and noisy, but with Truls sitting next to him and Ron in front of him, Harry felt quite comfortable.

"Silence," the teacher said, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. She set down the box and glanced towards Truls and Harry before turning away. "As all of you should know by now, we have three new students with us today. Miss Meunier from Beauxbatons and Misters Potter and Kettil from Durmstrang. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor and the Gryffindor Head of House. With introductions out of the way I sincerely hope that none of you will be distracted during the class today. The tasks ahead of you will need complete concentration."

"I wonder if it's something we have learned already," Truls whispered, leaning closer to Harry. "That'd be such a waste of time, wouldn't it?"

"I hope not," Harry replied quietly. "She looks tougher than Professor Kay, and he is very strict with his lessons. Besides, I doubt Professor Karkaroff would have allowed us to attend these classes if the content is something we've learned already. You know how... dedicated he is to ensuring that we don't waste learning opportunities."

"Yeah," Truls said, amusement evident in his voice. "That was very diplomatically put."

"For the first half hour there will be no need for your wands, so you can put yours away, Mr. Corner" Professor McGonagall said, and a few students giggled as a boy at the front sighed heavily and shoved his wand back into his pocket. "So far we have mostly focused on Transfiguration as a provider of assistance in your everyday lives. Transfiguring a chair out of a book or a bed out of a blanket or even turning a cat into a mouse."

"I'd have loved to see the last one," Truls whispered, sounding impressed. Harry nodded, imagining a mouse, thinking like a cat, trying to pounce on other mice. He hoped the animal was turned back at the end of that particular lesson, and not left to suffer.

"But at times," Professor McGonagall continued, "you will need to transfigure a shield, or a sword or any other tool in an emergency situation. You will need to learn how to transfigure things from how they used to be to how you need them to become, and unlike so far, you will have to manage that within a very limited time amount of time. Most of us here, I hope, can transfigure a pen into a spear should I give you a whole day to complete the task. How many of you can do that in less than a minute?"

 _'That's a very good point,'_ Harry thought, and glanced at Truls. He smiled when he saw how pleased his friend was, enjoying the other boy’s happiness. Transfiguration had always been one of Truls's favourite subjects, and Harry had wondered if his friend would ever make a career out of it.

"No," Truls whispered, and only then did Harry realize that he had whispered the question aloud. Truls gave him a small smile, and Harry smiled in return before he even realized it.

"What would you want to do, then?" Harry asked, curious. He couldn't imagine his friend working as a healer or a teacher. Perhaps an Auror?

"Lawyer," Truls said, surprising his friend. "I'm not that interested in politics or healing or entrepreneurship, and there's always a need for good lawyers."

"You're right," Harry admitted. "It's a lot of paper-pushing, though, or so I've heard. Wouldn't you prefer something more... physical?"

"It's all right," Truls said with a shrug. "I've got that covered." Before Harry could ask for his friend to elaborate, McGonagall levitated the box she had carried with her to pass by each student, instructing everyone to grab any of the small items inside it.

"It doesn't matter which one you take," she said when some students spent a tad too long trying to pick. "You'll be transfiguring these into small balls regardless of which one you grab. The task is to be able to complete the transfiguration perfectly within ten minutes. The items are charmed to return to their original shape as soon as ten minutes have passed, unless the transfiguration has been completed. In other words: if you're too slow, you'll start from the beginning."

"I actually like her teaching style more than Professor Kay's," Truls said, enjoying the challenge wholeheartedly. "Besides, it's yet another skill that can be used during the tournament, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, peeking into the box that had finally reached them. He didn't waste much time before picking out a small coin, deliberately avoiding the wooden chess piece right next to it. As much as he struggled with Transfiguration anyway, somehow transfiguring wood into something else was even more difficult for him. "Speaking of which - the Tournament, I mean. I can't wait until dinnertime. Isn't that when we'll be told more about what's going to happen?"

"It is," Truls confirmed. "And they'll introduce the judges too. I heard Lestrange speculating if the Dark Lord himself will be there, but I really doubt it."

"I suppose he's too busy for something as unimportant as this," Harry said. "I mean, he will watch the actual tasks but I really don't think he'll bother with any of the less official events, you know?" Knowing Tom, the man would barely have the time to turn up for the actual tournament.

"You're right," Truls sighed, tapping the tip of his wand against the small button he had in front of him, managing to make it look just a little bit rounder. "I wonder who will be there, then. I guess we'll just have to wait and see, don't we?"


	30. Chapter 30

Dinnertime came fast, and Harry couldn't deny that he was feeling nervous even though he knew that there was no need for that. At least, not yet. When he entered the Great Hall with Truls right behind him, he saw that Anthony Lestrange had taken a seat with the Slytherins and Maria Rurik with the Ravenclaws. Taking that as a sign to go and sit wherever he wanted, Harry headed towards the Gryffindor table where Ron was enjoying a large portion of lasagna.

"Hello, Harry," Granger said with a bright smile, and Harry smiled in return. Truls rolled his eyes and sat down as well before reaching for the pitcher of lemon juice.

"All right there, mate?" Ron asked around his mouthful. Harry nodded.

"Yes," he said, "although I'm very nervous."

"I get that," Ron nodded. "Eat something. Hey, your name is Truls, right?"

"Yes. We've met before, Weasley," Truls replied curtly, and Harry expected Ron to get angry, or offended, or just snort and return to his food. To his surprise, that wasn't what happened next.

"You know Harry's habits better than I do," Ron said with an easy smile, "so could you make sure he doesn't just shuffle his food around on his plate but actually eats some?" When Truls nodded, his expression shifting instantly to something akin to polite friendliness, Harry realized something he hadn't quite known before: Ron was _clever_. Far cleverer and more observant than people gave him credit for.

Harry knew how possessive Truls was of him here at Hogwarts, and Ron had somehow managed to not only figure that out, but also knew how to use it to make Truls less hostile towards him. On the other hand, wasn't it _bad_ that Truls could be manipulated like that?

 _'Maybe I'm just reading too much into things,'_ Harry thought with a sigh. "You know I can eat perfectly well on my own, Ron," he said. The redhead shrugged.

"Sure," Ron replied. "I didn't mean to patronize or anything, but I swear mate you're even skinnier than the last time I saw you. Lose any more weight and you'll disappear entirely."

"I agree," Truls said, surprising Harry. "You also need more than just roasted potatoes, Harry."

"I heard that if the Tournament is a success this year, it will be held again in a few years and regularly after that," Granger joined their conversation with a hushed voice, changing the topic of conversation much to Harry’s relief. "That means that those of us who couldn't compete this year still have a chance to do it later."

"Blimey," said Ron. "Where do you get this news from?" Granger rolled her eyes, but a small smug smile tugged at her lips. Her response was interrupted, however, when the doors of the Great Hall were pushed open, and a teacher walked in accompanied by a handful of witches and wizards with parchments, quills, and small bags.

"Reporters," Truls said sullenly. "Of course. Karkaroff told us that only the official reporters are allowed to interview us, so I suppose they'll introduce them now."

"I know quite a few of them," Granger said. "I have a friend who works at the Daily Prophet, you see. The only one you really need to be wary of is Rita Skeeter - she's the witch dressed in green with fuchsia feathers around the collar. She's a very popular columnist but not nice at all."

"I'll do my best to stay away from her, then," Harry said, and Truls nodded in agreement. The reporters sat down around a round table near the teachers' platform, and soon after they had settled Headmasters Yaxley and Karkaroff, as well as the Beauxbatons Headmistress, arrived with Sirius and more witches and wizards in tow. It didn't take Harry long to notice Bellatrix Lestrange striding confidently next to her cousin.

He could... he could understand Mette's desire to be like Bellatrix. Even though the woman was stunningly beautiful, she had forced the world around her to see that she was far more than that. It was sad, in a way, that women had to fight just to be seen and judged as the people they were, rather than only what they looked like.

"That's your godfather, isn't it?" Truls asked, and Harry nodded. Sirius was dressed in formal robes that truly singled him out as one of the Dark Lord's highest ranking Death Eaters, and seeing him so serious made him almost unrecognizable to Harry.

"I'm so excited," Granger whispered, as they watched everyone take their seats while Headmaster Yaxley showed Sirius where he was supposed to stand during his speech. Harry kept expecting his godfather to roll his eyes and shoo the other man away but that didn't happen.

"Esteemed professors, honoured guests, and dear students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang," Sirius began, his voice carrying easily over the silence of the hall. "We have gathered here today to learn more of the upcoming event that has caused quite the stir lately: the Triwizard Tournament. Many of you have travelled a long distance to be a part of this event, and we welcome you on British soil with the blessings of Lord Voldemort."

Sirius paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the hundreds of students in front of him, listening in anticipation. "The Triwizard Tournament was first held in 1294 and it took place once every five years. However, as years went by, more and more limitations were added to the rules to hinder the Pureblood participants who had the superior knowledge and skills, and in 1792 the tournament was cancelled altogether."

 _'Why is he saying this,'_ Harry thought, frowning _. 'It's like he's blaming the Muggleborns for it.'_ Harry knew that that couldn't be what Sirius had meant, but it didn't really make his words any less accusatory. Then again, perhaps it was something he had been required to say? Alienating muggleborns was something most people did rather openly.

"In this year's Triwizard Tournament, the champions of Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons will compete against one another to prove to all of us watching that they are the superior witch or wizard, capable of utilising their intelligence and magical ability to its full potential," Sirius continued. "The glory and honour that will be enjoyed by the victor will only be enhanced by the monetary award of five thousand galleons, granted by the Dark Lord himself."

"Blimey," Ron whispered, wholeheartedly impressed. "Five thousand! That's a lot."

"Before I begin describing the tasks your champions will be facing," Sirius said. "Allow me to introduce the judges of this tournament." He then turned towards where Bellatrix was sitting, and the woman stood up with a wicked smile on her face. "Bellatrix Lestrange, familiar to most of us, I believe. Hard to impress, so show her your best!"

"I remember her," Truls muttered, and Harry nodded. Strangely, the woman didn't seem to have aged a day from when he had seen her for the first time.

"Secondly," Sirius said, and an older woman next to Bellatrix sighed heavily before standing up with a rather displeased expression. "Lady Araminta Meliflua, whom we're lucky to have here. This lady knows more about magic than most of us here could ever hope to learn."

"I know her too," Truls said. "She's friends with my grandmother. Meliflua wanted to legalize Muggle hunting."

"Wanted to legalize _what_?" Granger gasped quietly, suddenly pale. She then turned to look at the old woman with a frightened expression on her face.

"And our last judge," Sirius said, and finally an old man with a face so sickly pale and blue veins crawling up his jaw and cheeks, stood up and offered the students a thin smile. "Is one of our country's finest and most accomplished war veterans: Edmund Parkinson. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let's give a round of applause to the judges!"

Harry clapped with the others, though his heart most certainly wasn't in it. He knew Bellatrix's reputation, and just heard from Truls about Araminta Meliflua... but what terrible deeds had Edmund Parkinson done to become as esteemed as he clearly was?

"The Dark Lord himself will come and watch the performances of the champions for each and every task. Never forget this, and should you think that your endurance is not enough, I recommend opting out from the tournament this time," Sirius said before he turned to the empty space next to him and waved his wand. A big goblet made of heavy hewn wood appeared, with blue and white flames going up to its edges.

"The Goblet of Fire," someone whispered, and Harry couldn't help but think of how fitting the name was.

"However, if you, after hearing the rest of what I have to say," Sirius continued, "believe that you have what it takes to be the Triwizard Champion, then you will need only to write your name upon a piece of parchment and throw it in the flames before Thursday night. On Friday, the Goblet of Fire will give us the names of the three champions."

"Such fascinating magic," Granger said, looking slightly less scared than she had moment before. Harry glanced at Araminta Meliflua again, not understanding how someone could even think of hunting other people as a sport.

"Now," Sirius said. "We will finally be moving on to the tasks each champion will face. They're not easy - but remember: nothing in the Tournament will be easy. Give it your all, and you'll not only show us what you're truly capable of, but also yourself. You'll learn more than you can begin to guess right now."

_'Either that, or die trying.'_

"The first task of the three is indeed the simplest. It will test your ability to pay attention to the small details and efficiency of carrying out orders that take you out of your comfort zone. Each champion will get a portkey to a closed location with no exits. Somewhere inside that place is a small plaque made of silver. On that plaque, you’ll find a number. Once you get that plaque, return using the same portkey that took you there. Be fast, be clever, be efficient."

 _'I doubt it is as simple as it sounds,'_ Harry thought. _'That closed location could be anything. Like a prison cell in Azkaban or something like that.'_

"The second task will take you somewhere else," Sirius continued. "You will be given a challenging assignment that will test your problem solving skills as well as your ability to complete missions discreetly and effectively."

"That was really vague," Truls murmured, and Harry nodded. It really wasn't much of an explanation.

"The third task is your opportunity to show off," Sirius said with a smug smirk. "Each champion will duel a skilled opponent. Whether you win or lose, you must take the opportunity for what it is: show us the variety of spells you know and how fast you can cast them. Show us how strong your magic is and how creative your mind can be. A duel might sound less complicated than the other two tasks, but I guarantee that it is the hardest."

"I don't think anybody will be doubting that," Ron sighed, before reaching for a pastry. "Man, this is making me hungry."

"Before I finish," Sirius said, "allow me to remind you that all students may be approached by reporters. You are not obliged to respond to any of them. There are a handful of reporters that we have given permission to conduct interviews on Hogwarts grounds, and each one of these reporters carries a badge identifying them. If anyone else approaches you, contact any of the teachers or staff members closest to you. Thank you all for your attention, and enjoy the rest of your dinner."

"Enjoy your dinner," Granger repeated. "Goodness, how _could we_ after what we just heard?"

"I can," Ron told her cheerfully. "Worrying won't change anything. We can't put our names in anyway." Harry looked away from the redhead, and glanced to where Bellatrix was sitting. He flinched when he met her eyes, not having expected her to be looking at him. Especially with a strange, almost gleeful, expression.

Suddenly, Harry felt very worried.

*

"Still nervous?" Mette asked, sitting next to Harry on the couch. The dinner had ended nearly an hour ago and most of the Durmstrang students had returned to their common room. Truls was talking with Krum about something - Quidditch, probably - while Harry had decided to sit on the couch by the fire and enjoy the warmth. Maria Rurik was reading a book on his other side, often getting distracted and looking up with a contemplative expression.

"Yeah," Harry replied, glancing at Mette. Her golden hair was tied into a loose braid and the make-up she had applied in the morning was still neatly intact. "I drank a lot of coffee today."

"I know," the girl said approvingly with a small smile. "And you pulled through. There's no point in staying up much longer."

"Whose owl is that," Maria said suddenly, and rushed to pull open a window at the other side of the common room. Her book was lying near Harry’s feet on the floor, forgotten. "Oh, it's carrying a letter from somebody."

"That girl has the distasteful habit of stating the obvious," Mette muttered. "I don't think she realizes how dumb that makes her sound." The dark brown owl flew in and dropped a neatly rolled parchment on Harry's lap.

"Is it from your friends at Durmstrang?" Maria asked curiously, returning to her seat, more than ready to read Harry’s letter with him. Harry took a look at the seal and shook his head, standing up.

"No, it's from my godfather. Excuse me, I think I'll go read it in private."

"Go to sleep after you do that," Mette called after him. "Tomorrow we'll all march in to enroll. I want everybody to be alert and at their best." Harry gave her a smile over his shoulder and made his way to the boys' shared bedroom. Anthony Lestrange was lying there in his own bed, if not asleep, then certainly relaxed enough to look so.

Quietly Harry changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, and climbed into his bed before breaking the seal of Sirius's letter and reading it.

 _"Dear Harry,"_ the letter began.

> _"How have you been? Are you excited about the Tournament? It'll be one hell of an adventure, regardless of whether you're a champion or not! I wish I could have called you to my office for a short talk - you know, about anything and everything - but unfortunately for now, a letter will have to be enough. Much to my displeasure we cannot communicate too openly, lest people accuse me of favouritism. Never fret, though!_
> 
> _Sometime soon I'll be sending you a small package, and in it you'll find a two-way mirror. Well, not just a mirror. Your father's invisibility cloak will be there, too, as I believe that you'll end up needing it sooner or later. The mirror, however, is something James and I used to use back in our schooldays. I have the other half of the pair, and if you need to speak to me, you only need to say my name into it - you'll appear in my mirror, and I'll appear in yours._
> 
> _That said, if you have anything else you'd like for me to send you either from home or acquire for you from somewhere else, please tell me. Unlike with Hogwarts students, the number of Durmstrang students participating will be so low that the chance of being selected is significantly higher. And if you do become the Durmstrang Champion, I want you as well prepared as possible._
> 
> _Heh, I suppose this is exactly the kind of favoritism people would frown upon."_

Harry looked up from the letter when he heard movement from Lestrange's bed, only to see that the boy had rolled to sleep on his stomach. His shoes were still on. Harry shook his head and refocused on reading.

> _"On another, less pleasant, note: James's death has been kept away from the papers so far. I do not know for how much longer that will be possible, though I fear that not for longer than a few weeks anymore. He was, after all, a Pureblood patriarch of your lineage._
> 
> _I'll keep looking into the matter and delay the publication of his death as much as I can. Be prepared, though, to weather its consequences soon."_

Below was the familiar signature of Sirius, overlapping letters and barely readable. Harry felt dread at the pit of his stomach, hating the thought of having to face the world if it ever came to learn of James's death. Could it be passed as an accident? Perhaps a war injury that got the best of him? The public opinion had never been particularly kind to people who killed themselves, and while Harry was angry and frustrated, he didn't think that anyone else had the right to judge what James had done. There was simply too much that had happened that they didn't know about.

 _'Then again,'_ Harry thought, remembering Luna's words. _'I, too, apparently have a lot I don't understand. I wish... I wish I could ask him...'_

It had been a long time since Harry had gone to the train station and seen Dumbledore and Merope. Somehow, the thought of trying to go there again frightened him in ways it had never done before. The chain that had last time pulled him out of there was still something he didn't understand - what if it was permanent? What if it meant the end of his... ability?

Without being able to speak to the dead, would Tom just... move on? Stop visiting?

The thought was far more upsetting than it should have been. Harry didn't like to admit it, and most certainly wouldn’t like to admit it to Tom himself, but the man had become quite a big part of Harry's life. A friend, even, if Dark Lords could be friends with anyone. Without his special ability, would Tom start treating Harry the way he treats everyone else?

Unless... Well, Sirius and Karkaroff had both said that the Triwizard Tournament was a chance for the champions to prove themselves. If Harry got selected, he'd have to use the opportunity to prove to Tom that he wasn't just a boy who could speak to the dead. That was, after all, part of what he'd need to do anyway. Merope had told him to make Tom see him as more than an entertaining pawn, and by Merlin, Harry would.

No matter what it took.

*

Days went by and Friday evening came too soon for Harry to feel ready for anything. Mette had taken a look at him, shaken her head, and told him to stop slouching.

"At least you're not as nervous as Viktor," the girl said, painting her lips pink. "How a Quidditch star can be so shy, I will never understand. It's all right, though. Makes him quite adorable, doesn't it?"

"You know he wasn't recruited for his charming personality," Lestrange sneered, and Ingrid Malte rolled her eyes with an annoyed expression.

"As opposed to you," she said. "All charm, that's what you are. Remember to keep any insulting remarks you have to yourself, especially if your target is a fellow student from Durmstrang. Whoever gets chosen today as our champion will receive the full support of everyone else. Is that understood?"

"I don't like your tone, Malte," Lestrange said.

"I absolutely do not care," the young woman told him, and spared a tight smile at a sickly looking Krum who finally emerged from the boys' room. "Once again, feel free to sit at whichever table you wish but remember your manners even if there's no one else to keep an eye on you."

"She doesn't really trust us, does she," Harry muttered as they left the common room, heading towards the Great Hall.

"She doesn't trust anyone," Truls replied, shaking his head. "The Malte family is part of the Swedish Royal Court, and are extremely involved in the Scandinavian politics. She's quite fair in her judgement and can be a leader when she wants to... but often gets too caught up in her visions of what should be done."

"I'm so excited," Maria Rurik suddenly declared. "Imagine being the Durmstrang Champion! No matter how badly you do in the actual competition, you'll still get _so_ many job offers."

"If you plan on _working_ , then absolutely," Mette agreed, though her tone was quite condescending. "But imagine the _proposals_ that will also come. To combine beauty with power... who wouldn't want that?"

"You think you could do well?" Lestrange said sourly, and the girl gave him a sweet smile before pressing closer to Viktor. Harry remembered suddenly seeing her for the first time: even then she had been close to the Quidditch star. Despite her claim about loving Lestrange, she still seemed to enjoy flirting with Viktor and seeing how flustered she could make him.

"Well, Anthony," she all but simpered. "When a lady has a will, a lady will find a way."

"Ah," Viktor started, clearing his throat. "I think you'd do f-fine, Mette."

"Thank you, darling," Mette said, smiling up at the Quidditch player. "What do you think, Harry?"

"Hm? Oh, well," Harry said and shrugged. "I don't think my opinions matter considering that once the Goblet of Fire has selected a champion, its selection is binding. So it's not like we could trade afterwards." He then thought of what Luna had told him, and continued: "But I hope that whoever does get chosen will know better than to underestimate the other two champions."

"Well said," Malte said approvingly right before they entered the Great Hall. "Well said, indeed."

"Don't you ever get tired of trying to be such a saint?" Lestrange hissed, before he stalked away towards the Slytherin table, Mette following him closely. Truls scowled at the other boy, but rather than do anything, he simply allowed Harry to pull him towards the Gryffindor table again. Harry felt too nervous to smile and was strangely upset by Lestrange's words.

A saint, huh? If only.

Perhaps years ago he had been a better person. Someone who had loved to see the world through the eyes of the fictional, noble heroes and heroines. But now... now he felt like an ugly, shallow, spiteful void that hated James for his grief, hated Sirius for his absence, and hated the world for not fixing either. It was easy to be neutral and polite when he couldn't find it in his heart to care about new people the way he used to.

Harry couldn't remember the last time when he didn't have thoughts laced with bitterness. Even before James's suicide, things had been going wrong in ways he hadn't known how to deal with. It did make him feel terrible, though. Terrible and always tired.

"You guys have to try the bread bowl soup," Ron said as soon as Harry and Truls sat down. "I don't usually like soups, but Circe's tits this one is—"

"Ron!" Granger gasped. "Language!"

"—absolutely fantastic," Ron finished. "Did everyone in Durmstrang end up putting their names into the Goblet?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Do you know anyone from Hogwarts who—"

"Diggory did," Lavender Brown revealed, leaning closer. "Cedric Diggory. He's that extremely handsome Hufflepuff there. Really polite and nice, but I don't know about his dueling skills. If either one of you ends up fighting against him, please spare his face. Punch him in the throat if you must, but don't break his nose."

"Is his face the only important thing to you?" Granger asked, and Brown shrugged with a silly grin that made Harry somehow want to smile as well.

"No," Brown replied. "But those other things cannot be discussed in polite company." Next to her an Indian girl smothered a laugh, her dark eyes twinkling with mirth. Granger was clearly about to reply when the doors of the Great Hall were pushed open, and Sirius walked in with Bellatrix. Everyone else - journalists, judges, teachers - were already dining, and Harry briefly wondered why the Black cousins hadn't dined with them.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. If I could ask you to put your dinners on hold," Sirius said with a charming smile. "We'll begin in a few moments."

"How come they never wait until we're actually _done_ with eating before declaring important things and holding speeches?" Ron muttered, leaning back. "Will anyone notice if I eat anyway?"

Granger's only response to that was to shush him.

"We've been waiting for this moment for quite a while now," Sirius said. "But before we reveal the names of the champions - and to keep you in suspense for a little while longer - I'll tell you about next week's Saturday." He then smiled again, before continuing: "What's happening next Saturday? Well, it is hardly a surprise anymore, but that's when the first task will take place. All students, staff, journalists, and other guests will head to what's better known as the Quidditch pitch. We've renovated it to better suit its new purpose."

"Don't we know that," Ron sighed wistfully. "No Quidditch for a whole year."

"The Tournament will begin at ten in the morning," Sirius said. "Shortly after breakfast. I advise you all to not be late. The Champions, however, will go on Saturday at eight thirty to Headmaster Yaxley's office. You will be given more instructions then and your wands will be checked." It was obvious how little the students cared about that information right now, too focused on the Goblet of Fire.

"Any minute, now," someone whispered, and Harry couldn't deny the anxiety that was making him sweat. He had never been the type to enjoy suspense or anticipation.

"When the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please stand up and remain standing," Sirius added, pulling out his wand and touching the rim of the goblet with it. The blue and white flames seemed to grow and burn even brighter than before. And then, suddenly, the fire turned red. Sparks flew as if to encourage the excited whispering of the students before the flames spat out a charred piece of parchment.

"The champion of Beauxbatons," Sirius said, grabbing the piece of parchment and bringing it closer. "Is Fleur Delacour!"

"It's her!" Ron suddenly gasped, and one of the French girls stood up gracefully, waving at the clapping students with a smile on her face. "Merlin, she's so beautiful."

"She's pretty, I guess," Harry said, thinking first of Mette and then Heidi. He thought then of Bellatrix as well, and wondered how good a duelist Delacour was. Loud gasps indicated a new development, and Harry turned his head to see that the goblet's flames had become red again, and soon Sirius was holding another piece of parchment.

"The champion of Hogwarts," Sirius said, "is George Weasley!" Loud cheers and clapping erupted at the Gryffindor table, echoed by considerably less enthusiastic applause from the other Houses as well. Harry saw a tall, freckled redhead stand up and bow with a wide grin. Ron's brother, Harry remembered. One of the twins.

"And finally," Sirius said, and Harry felt Truls shift next to him as they watched the flames turn red for the third time. Waiting for a small piece of parchment to emerge and for Sirius to read it seemed to last a lifetime. And when Harry saw Sirius's expression as he read the name, when he saw his godfather's eyes flicker towards him, Harry _knew_.

"The champion of Durmstrang," Sirius said. "Is Harry Potter."

Harry stood up, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat and the rush of his blood. If someone spoke to him, or congratulated him, he didn't hear. It took him a moment to snap out of his thoughts and focus on something else aside from the fear that suddenly filled him to the brim.

Ron was clapping, and so was Truls. Bellatrix, much to the evident surprise of everyone around her, had decided to give him a standing ovation. Mette was clapping with a sharp smirk on her face, Viktor looked genuinely pleased for him, and Luna was waving her both hands with a delighted smile.

And in that moment all Harry wanted, from the bottom of his heart, was to talk to his parents.

*

By the time Harry went to bed, he was exhausted to the bone. He had been congratulated by the students surrounding him, his Durmstrang classmates, his godfather, and even Headmaster Karkaroff had dropped by the common room with Professors Heiner and Wieland to congratulate him and remind him of his duties as the Durmstrang Champion.

Worrying about the tournament and keeping up with all the new demands heaved onto his shoulders was exhausting, and as he lay in his bed unable to sleep, Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear in his heart. What if he failed? What if he wasn't good enough? What if he was so bad that everyone would laugh at him and Tom would think he was useless and--

 _'Don't think about that,'_ Harry told himself sternly, clenching his eyes shut and resisting the temptation to hit himself. 'Don't think of how badly it could go.' Instead, he tried to focus on anything, tried to come up with any memories that would distract him from imagining his own humiliation and failures. He didn't succeed until he suddenly remembered Merope and Albus.

He hadn't been able to go to the train station for quite a while. The last time he tried he had been frustrated and unable to focus, but perhaps focusing on that was exactly what he needed right now? He could give it a shot, at least? Decision made, Harry took a deep breath, and concentrated on something beyond the beat of his own heart and the pillow under his head. It was odd, though, how for the longest time there seemed to be a new barrier preventing him from going.

Harry imagined the cold, the feeling of the damp bench under him, the sound of trains passing by. He remembered the loud ticking of the ugly, stained clocks hanging from the ceiling, the rush of people and the mist that hid everything beyond the train station itself. And then it happened: that feeling of sliding, and soon Harry wasn't lying on his back anymore, but standing on his feet. He blinked his eyes open, and saw Merope standing in front of him.

Something was wrong, though.

There was a thick rope of something - looked like mist, but was far more solid - wrapped around him. He couldn't move from where he was standing and it took him a moment to realize that though he could see Merope clearly, he couldn't hear her, and she couldn't hear him. Nor could he hear the sound of heavy rain that he could still feel or hear the sound of a train as it came to a halt on one of the tracks. With the realization came the knowledge that the rope would spring him back to where he had come from at any second, like a rubber band that had been stretched just a bit too far.

Harry looked at Merope, who had given up on shouting at him and had decided to point at the rope instead. She then brought her hand to her throat, and made a slashing motion. Harry shook his head, unsure of how to communicate. The woman rolled her eyes - a downright unpleasant sight, it was - and jabbed a finger at the rope, before slowly spelling the word "WHO" on the air.

"Who?" Harry repeated, and shook his head. "I don't know? I mean, I don't even know what, let alone who." Merope's scowl became quite frightening as she stomped closer, and nearly touched the rope with her fingertip. Slowly, with her other hand, she began writing something in the air again. Harry tried to make sense of it but made the mistake of shifting where he stood, and it seemed that that was all the rope needed to fling him back into his body.

Returning had never hurt before, but now the impact left Harry breathless and his muscles ached. His stomach felt tender, as if someone had given him a solid punch just seconds before. After a few moments of deep breathing, he tried to sit up only to be hit by a wave of nausea that forced him back down and made him clench his eyes shut.

Why was everything going _wrong_ in his life?

Harry could hear the quiet snoring of the other boys, and wanted nothing more than to leave and get some fresh air. Perhaps he would be able to sort out some of his worries, or at least begin to understand what the strange rope was about. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar, though. Harry remembered something similar - if not the rope itself, then the sensation - from the previous time he had managed to go to the train station.

It was as if the thing had been there for a while, and simply become stronger as time passed.

Merope hadn't asked what the rope was. She had asked "who", and-- out of all the things in his life, was _this_ something Harry wanted to focus on first? The boy sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling tired but not sleepy at all. His muscles still felt tender and he had a terrible headache, but he didn't feel particularly nauseated anymore. How come less than an hour ago he had wanted nothing more than a few hours of sleep, but now just couldn't manage that?

After lying on his back for many long minutes, Harry finally kicked off his covers with a huff and climbed out of bed. Perhaps if he took a walk, he'd bump into Luna again? Maybe her unique brand of wisdom was exactly what would make everything better.

This time he didn't steal Krum's slippers but rather managed to locate his own before leaving the bedroom, and continuing his way out to the dark corridor outside the common room. He had taken but a few steps when someone's bony, cold hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Fantastic timing," a familiar voice hissed, making Harry shudder all of a sudden. "Come with me."

*

"Isn't there a war you're supposed to keep an eye on?" Harry asked, huddling next to the fireplace in surprisingly cosy quarters. Then again, considering who the rooms belonged to, the level of comfort and luxury should not have come as a surprise.

"I _am_ keeping my eyes on that," Tom assured him, sitting on an obnoxiously fancy chair with his snake on his lap. The bastard was even petting it with one hand and holding a glass of red wine with another. Harry clutched his mug of hot chocolate closer to his body and felt reluctantly amazed at how he had ended up where he was.

"Were you just waiting outside in the corridor?" Harry asked. "You know it was just a whim that made me decide to take a walk, don't you?"

"Potter, I hate to tell you this, but you're very predictable," Tom replied, not even bothering to hide his smug smile. "Every single time you worry about something, you take a walk. And since worrying is a habit you can't seem to change, the midnight strolls are a significant contributor to how little sleep you get in general. Considering today’s events, you deciding to take a walk is exactly what I knew would happen."

"That's not true," Harry denied instantly. "I don't do it that often. Besides, what do you know anyway?"

"I know everything," Tom said. "Now, about the tournament."

"I wish my parents were here," Harry blurted out, before looking at the Dark Lord. "Mum and dad. I realized that earlier. When everyone was clapping. And I don't know what's wrong with me but I feel a lot less enthusiastic about everything than I used to. I haven't read a good book for a while, I don't keep up with my friends, I'm just... not happy."

"Happiness is hard work," Tom told him. "Now, the tournament—"

"And I keep worrying about what will happen next," Harry continued. "What if I'm not strong enough? What if someone else I care about dies? What if I fail so badly at the tournament that no one will want to even speak to me anymore?"

"Fantastic. Now let's actually focus on the tournament—"

"I just want to sleep until everything is over," Harry sighed, and finished the hot chocolate just in time for Tom to haul him up and away from the fireplace. He was pushed to sit down on one of the ridiculously fancy chairs - which turned out to be just as comfortable as it was ridiculous - and the now empty mug was taken from his hand and set down on a table nearby.

"Listen, Potter," Tom started, pulling a chair closer and sitting right in front of the boy. "Harry, I mean. Unless you have something that is actually _important_ —"

"Do you know what can manifest itself as a rope made of light that grows with time?" Harry interrupted. "If not, then fine, we can talk about the tournament."

"There are a few things that can do that," Tom replied dismissively. "I'll send you a list. Now—"

"All right, fine. The tournament. You probably know more about it than I do, though."

"Of course I know more about it than you do, that's why I called you here."

"You didn't call me," Harry reminded him. "You waited until I decided to take a walk - which was something entirely based on luck from your part, no matter what you say - and then grabbed me and dragged me here."

"Irrelevant," Tom said. "You were told that you'll be dueling only in the last part of the tournament. The third task. That, however, is incorrect. While the second task can be, technically, completed without dueling, succeeding that way is extremely unlikely."

"I'll be practicing," Harry said, and Tom gave him an ugly glare.

"You flinging a few hexes at a dummy is not going to be enough," the Dark Lord told him. "I could simply tell you to continue those silly little dueling lessons you had with Crouch Junior—"

"You knew about those?"

"Of course I knew, the man hides nothing from me. However, you will need more than what he can teach you. I did consider allowing Bellatrix to teach you, but due to her being one of the judges, I had to dismiss her as an option. Your godfather would coddle you, and any of your other teachers would underestimate you and not push you to your full potential. Therefore I will be the one to train you for the upcoming tasks."

"Really?" Harry gasped, genuinely surprised. Sure, Tom had made some vague promises of teaching him something useful quite a few times in the past, and Harry had hoped that he'd come through with those promises sooner rather than later, but somehow... _now_? It felt quite strange. Great, but strange.

"I have a copy of your schedule," Tom said. "Your Sundays were completely free, so what we will do is this: starting this week, you and I will meet here every Sunday morning from nine onwards. You'll eat breakfast with your friends and then you'll come here, fully prepared to work hard until dinner."

"The first task is next week," Harry said. "So we'll meet once before it."

"The first task requires imagination and intelligence more than anything else," Tom told him, and leaned back in his chair. He eyed the boy silently for a few moments before he continued: "I heard that your father was buried. Was the funeral as crowded as your mother's?"

"There was no funeral," Harry said, feeling suddenly annoyed. "Sirius buried him and then told me."

"And that... does not upset you?"

"I thought you didn't like talking about feelings?"

"I don't," Tom admitted. "But the thought of you being too distracted to do your best does not please me at all. If talking about whatever is obviously preventing you from sleeping will help you, then I am willing to put up with it."

"You're really bad at comforting people," Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes and curling up on the chair. He rested his chin on his knees and pursed his lips, staring at Tom. "I was thinking about the tournament mostly. And then the rope of light - it's something I read in a book and—"

"That's a lie," Tom interrupted, a small smirk on his face. "You usually never explain yourself, but when you lie you provide explanations too eagerly. Never offer an explanation unless one is specifically asked from you. And sometimes not even then. Now, unless you have anything else to say, you're dismissed."

"What?" What happened to listening to Harry talking about his feelings?

"Go,” Tom said. “Brush your teeth. Sleep. Tomorrow there will be reporters running after you, so beware."

And oh, didn't that sound absolutely splendid.


	31. Chapter 31

Much to Harry's relief, Truls and the others were satisfied with a vague explanation when he told them that he wouldn't be available on Sundays.

"I got someone to train me," Harry had said, and that was really all the others had needed to hear, perhaps assuming that he had meant Sirius. Tom, for some reason, wasn't impressed.

"You could have just, oh I don't know, not said _anything_ ," the Dark Lord told him. "Did they even ask you? No? You just offered the information freely, didn't you? I don't understand what kind of codependency makes you a slave to the bizarre need to report all of your actions to your peers.”

"I think you're being dramatic," Harry said, following Tom to an empty windowless room. With a flick of his wand the ceiling was suddenly alight, each stone shining dimly and illuminating the whole area. "Are we going to duel?"

"No," Tom said, and muttered something else that Harry didn't quite manage to hear. It sounded as if the Dark Lord had called him 'stupid,' but the ruler of the Wizarding World couldn't _possibly_ be so childish. "I'd fry you on the spot if we started dueling _now_. You wouldn’t last a minute."

"What are we going to do, then?" Harry wanted to know, scowling at the man’s confidence. Then again, he didn’t doubt that as they were now, Tom was far superior when it came to, well, everything.

"I've taught you a few healing spells," Tom started. "And you know many different offensive and defensive spells. The tasks – especially the last one – will require more than that." Harry listened quietly, leaning against the wall and enjoying the Dark Lord's company as he spoke. It was a little bit funny, Harry thought, how much like a teacher the man was sometimes.

"Spells are ineffective unless you use them properly," Tom continued. "Knowing how to cast the Killing Curse is useless unless you actually go ahead and cast it."

"I'm not going to do that," Harry replied, frowning. "I don't want to kill anyone."

"And let me guess," Tom said, wholeheartedly unimpressed. "You also don't want to torture or maim anyone. You'd rather have people sit down and sort out their problems by talking."

"Well—"

"No."

Tom then conjured two chairs and sat down on one of them, while gesturing for Harry to sit on the other. "I am old, Harry. I am old and I have known all kinds of people. I've met the good and the bad, the desperate and the ambitious. I've seen humility turn into wounded pride and arrogance crumble into dust and misery. And it is with this knowledge that I can tell you: you  _will_  kill someone."

Harry stared at the man in front of him, not willing to believe what he was hearing. A part of him knew that yes, in all likelihood with the life he was living he would someday have to wound another human being fatally. But to discuss it with such certainty unsettled him. "I don't want to."

"Wanting has nothing to do with it," Tom said. "That's the thing, you see? You kill when you have to, not when you want to. If you were a Hogwarts student planning on getting married and running a household while working a typical nine to five job, then sure, maybe you won't kill anyone. But _that is not you_ , Harry."

"It  _could_  be me," Harry claimed, though he knew that Tom was right. As long as Harry aimed to uphold his end of the promise to Merope, as long as he intended on changing some of the things that were a common part of their society, there would always be someone who'd fight him until one of them collapsed.

It wasn't a pleasant realization.

"The...  _thing_  that makes Death Eaters different," Tom said, "is their own sense of when killing becomes the best option. What they all have in common is that death is  _always_  one of the options. Sometimes you kill to prove a point, sometimes to erase a problem, sometimes just to... vent a little." The Dark Lord paused, observing the skeptical expression on Harry's face. The boy was, quite clearly, not convinced.

"I knew this would be a problem," Tom sighed. "I won't duel you, and I won't even teach you any new spells yet. What we _will_ be doing instead is something else entirely."

"Considering our topic of conversation, I'm worried."

"You'll be absolutely safe, I assure you."

 _'It's not my safety that I'm starting to worry about,'_  Harry thought. Silently he watched Tom conjure a tiny brown rabbit, and set it down on the floor. The bunny sat there for a few moments, its nose twitching as it took in its environment. Then it moved, though Harry knew that it would find no exits.

"I don't need a new pet," Harry said, dread pooling at the pit of his stomach. "Really. Thank you and all that, but I really don't want a new one. I have an owl. Could you just return this to... wherever you summoned it from?"

"I'm teaching you a valuable lesson," Tom replied. "Appreciate it, because you're the only one that I have had to teach this to. Now, stand up and pull out your wand."

"I don't like this," Harry told him, but did as told. He wanted nothing more than to leave, or change the subject, or make Tom teach him something else. He didn't, though. He couldn't. Harry thought of Merope, and thought of his difficulties with the train station, and wondered if Tom would bother with him today if he knew about how difficult being special had become.

It was stupid, and selfish, and had nothing to do with making the world a better place, but Harry really didn't want to lose Tom's attention.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked, holding his wand tightly in his hand. Tom stood up as well, and his hand was cold and heavy on Harry's shoulder.

"Now," the man replied, sounding far more pleased than he should. “You use a simple cutting curse to kill it."

*

"You look dead on your feet," Truls observed, watching Harry sit down and nearly fall face-first into his plate of syrup-covered waffles. "Was training that hard?"

"You could say that," Harry replied. Tom hadn't made him learn new spells, no. All he had focused on was making Harry use the spells he knew on whatever small animals Tom had conjured. It was exhausting and draining and upsetting, not to mention tougher than any dueling class he had had to endure.

Harry had decided, for a change, to sit with Luna at the Ravenclaw table. Much to his secret delight, Truls didn't seem to know how to behave around the eccentric girl who told them about an infestation of some unheard of magical creature while trying to share her portion of apple pie with as many people as possible.

"It's like an edible hug," Luna told Truls, smiling in response to the older boy's wide-eyed confusion. "A hug from the inside."

"Say, Luna," Harry suddenly said, remembering something either Sirius or one of his parents had told him years ago. "Does Hogwarts really have old ghosts flying around?"

"We have a few," Luna told him, pouring more vanilla cream onto her apple pie. "But sadly, they don't interact with the students often anymore. There was some sort of a conflict, you see, when Headmaster Yaxley came to work here. Many of the ghosts liked the previous headmaster better and after he left they decided to distance themselves from the people who are here now. Which is truly a pity, some of them have quite the tales to tell."

"Do you know if any of them are old enough to have witnessed a previous tournament?" Harry asked. He knew it was a long shot, but any kind of extra help would be greatly appreciated.

"I don't think so," Luna replied after a moment of contemplation. "I don't know if the Triwizard Tournament was ever held in Hogwarts before. But if there's someone in Hogwarts who’d know, it will be the Grey Lady."

"Where do you think I could find her?"

"How useful could she be, though?" Truls asked. "Let's assume she  _did_  witness a previous tournament, it's probably going to be very different from this year's tournament, right? Different tasks, different judges." Harry shrugged, though he knew that what Truls had said was very true. However, even if Harry decided to not ask about the tournament, he could ask about something else. Maybe the Grey Lady remembered his parents when they were young. Or maybe even... maybe even Tom when he was young. He had studied at Hogwarts after all.

Good Circle, Tom as a teenager. Had he been anything like Harry?

"The dead are unexpectedly useful," Luna said with a serene smile. "If nothing else, they're good listeners. The Grey Lady is often around the Ravenclaw Tower but I don't think anyone except Ravenclaws can go up there - at least, not alone. I can tell her to seek you out, Harry, but whether she really does it or not is up to her, of course."

"Thank you," Harry smiled, before turning back to his waffles. He was nearly finished when someone sat next to Luna, facing Harry, and slammed down a few books. Startled, the boy looked up to see an angry Mette moving to pile a small mountain of steamed vegetables onto her plate.

"Interesting books," Luna said, reaching to pick one. She either did not notice or didn't care about the other girl's evident bad mood. "Do you study advanced alchemy at Durmstrang?"

"It's a hobby," Mette replied sullenly, stabbing a piece of broccoli with her fork. "Potions and arithmancy were just too easy. Anyway. You. Who are you?"

"Luna Lovegood," Luna said. "Harry's friend. And you?"

"Mette Erling. Harry, could you get me some coffee, please?"

"Uhm. All right." Harry poured her some coffee into a finely decorated cup and added milk into it before handing the cup to Mette.

"What's making _you_ breathe fire?" Truls asked curiously. "Usually you're all smiles and sunshine."

"Oh, honey, you know nothing of my smiles and sunshine," Mette replied acidly. She then took a deep breath and shook her head, putting some visible effort into not scowling anymore. To Harry, she didn't seem angry anymore, but as if she were on the verge of tears. "It's been a shit day."

"Why?" Harry asked. His day had been... not bad, despite what Tom had tried to make him do. The Dark Lord hadn't been particularly pleased, but had told Harry to be fully prepared to shed some blood next week. "Can we help with anything?"

"Oh, darling," Mette sighed, and offered him a smile that wasn't as confident as she would have liked. "The matters of the heart tend to confuse and hurt the best of us sometimes, don't they? Never you mind, just focus on your food. I do hope though that you didn't skip the actual meal and go straight to the waffles."

"He did," Luna said helpfully. "Didn't even glance at the vegetables."

"All  _you_  have been eating is apple pie!" Harry exclaimed, and scowled. "I'm just not hungry. Circe, I thought you were my _friend_."

"You need to start eating properly if you want to be healthy and full of energy next Saturday," Mette told him, and Harry could see Truls nod in agreement.

"I heard that Fleur is sticking to a very strict diet," Truls said. "She will definitely be in top form next week."

"She's fantastic, isn't she," Mette sighed. "If I had legs like hers I'd never wear anything that goes past my arse."

"Anyway," Truls said, "all that aside. Harry, I'm going to the library to get some assignments done. Want to join me?"

"Yeah," Harry replied immediately, thinking of the pile of homework he hadn't even touched yet. "Good idea. Let's go."

“Proper lunch first,” Mette said instantly. “Or at least take something with you. Honestly, are you planning on fainting? I can tell you, that does not attract any dashing princes. Been there, done that. You don’t have the tits for it.”

“She’s right,” Luna added. “Unless you faint on Valentine’s Day while holding a cactus. But then the prince charming might not be yours after all, so I wouldn’t recommend doing it then either.”

“Okay,” Harry said, grabbing a few pastries and dead set on ignoring whatever Luna and Mette had said. How come it was a prince, anyway? Why not a princess? Then again— oh, whatever. “Cool. Truls, let’s go.”

*

The next few days passed fast, and Harry found himself always either catching up on homework or trying to deal with bouts of anxiety. He frequently battled the urge to run far, far away and distance himself from everything. Truls's presence alternated between being the best support Harry could hope for, and the most stifling nightmare he could imagine. Mette's mood swings had become worse, and the Hogwarts students that Harry knew were busy dealing with their own studies.

And despite it all, somehow, the worst was that he hadn't heard a single word from Tom since Sunday. Was the man truly planning on limiting their communication to once a week? If so, then the next time they would meet would be _after_ the first task.

"Krum told me he's going to go flying soon," Truls said, and the smile on his face made Harry feel guilty all of a sudden. He shouldn't find Truls's constant presence a bother; many would kill to have this kind of a loyal friend. "I was thinking of joining him. You in?"

"I don't think I have the time," Harry admitted, feeling genuinely sorry. He missed flying, but wanted to focus his time on gathering as much information as he possibly could. At least for now, when the first task was but a few days away. "I've got so much to study and time is running out quickly. But please, don't hold yourself back on my account - all I'm planning on doing is simply sit here and read. You'd be bored to death and how would that make me feel?"

"Are you sure?" Truls asked, eyeing the book Harry was holding with a frown when the other boy nodded. "Well, if you change your mind, you'll find us near the Gamekeeper's cottage. They have only one pitch here and well, you know what happened to it."

"Sure," Harry replied. Truls didn't move immediately - instead he stared at Harry for a few long moments with a peculiar expression before leaning forward to touch Harry's cheek gently with his fingertips. A little smile was playing on his lips and for an instant Harry couldn't breathe.

"Don't tire yourself out," Truls said, and Harry nodded silently, unable to say a word. The other boy smiled again before grabbing his coat and a broom and leaving the room. Harry stared at the closing doorway, unsure of what had transpired, confused and sick of having more things to think about.

Perhaps this was something he could ask Tom about?

Thinking of Tom made Harry think of the ghost Luna had mentioned: the Grey Lady. Surely she would remember a remarkable student like Tom from his days as a student? Luna had said that the ghosts hadn't distanced themselves until the previous Headmaster of Hogwarts had left, which meant that during Tom's time they must have been far more present.

Was it strange that Harry couldn't help but be extremely interested in knowing what Tom's least favourite school subject had been? He didn't know many things about Tom, and most of what he knew had more to do with Tom's 'Lord Voldemort' persona rather than Tom himself.

 _'Then again, they're not separate entities,'_  Harry thought, suddenly far less amused than he had been moments before.  _'It's the same man. He can act like a child and tell me silly things all he wants, but at the end of the day he's the man who can burn innocent people on stakes, torture others for information and actively permit and promote prejudice against Muggleborns.'_  He didn't want to make the mistake of forgetting what Tom actually did every day he spent away from Harry.

"What put you in a bad mood?" a familiar voice said, and Mette sat down next to Harry on the couch. "Surely the book isn't that awful?"

"I was just thinking," Harry sighed. "What about you? You've been pretty... stressed lately."

"Oh, I've been a terror," Mette admitted, and shook her head with a humourless smile. "It's all right."

"Is it really?" Harry took a look at the others in the room and lowered his voice as he continued: "Do you want to... talk about it?"

Mette sat silently for a few moments, before she opened her mouth to speak. A moment of speculative hesitation told Harry that she had decided to discuss a different topic. “Bellatrix Lestrange gave you a standing ovation," she said. "How come?"

"Honestly, Mette," Harry started, "who can really tell why she chooses to do whatever things she ends up doing? I couldn't begin to guess... In fact, I wouldn't even  _dare_  to guess."

"Has anyone ever told you that you ramble when you lie," Metter asked curiously, and Harry thought of Tom, before promptly shaking his head. This time the witch's smile was genuine.

"I get it," she said with a sly grin. "You want to keep your secrets. That's fine."

"It's not really a secret," Harry said. "She once complimented my eyes, but that's it. I don't know why she'd even notice me or... or be happy to see me become the Durmstrang champion. I don't know, so I don't really like talking about it." Rather, he didn't like thinking about it, in fear of coming up with theories that would distract him from studying.

"I wish I had worries like yours," Mette said, and Harry had to suddenly put quite a lot of effort into keeping his smile from disappearing. "But when you get older, Harry, you'll enter a whole new world of trouble."

"Does this have anything to do with how upset you've been lately?"

"You could say that."

"Does it have anything to do with... Anthony?" Harry whispered, leaning closer. The witch shrugged, smiling wistfully.

"That easy to guess, huh?" she said. "It's all right, though. I know how to handle heartache. You should thank your stars that you haven't got a serious crush going on anyone... Unless..."

"There isn't anyone," Harry said quickly, thinking first of Clemens, then Truls and even Tom. He fleetingly tried to come up with a single girl he had had a crush on, and came up with nothing. "No one."

"It's all right to like someone, you know," Mette told him. "You know what... why don't you just get used to that thought for now? Girls, boys, it's fine to like either or both. Just don't sabotage your own chances out of fear."

And damned Circe if _that_ didn't bring with it an unexpected realization.

*

On Thursday, after Harry and his classmates were done with their lessons, an older student with a badge on his robes approached Harry and introduced himself as the Ravenclaw Prefect.

"Headmaster Yaxley wants all the champions to go to his office," the prefect told him. "I'm here to ensure that you'll do so as swiftly as possible. It's easy to get lost, you see."

"Okay," Harry replied, and handed his bag of school supplies to Truls, who was eyeing the prefect with no small amount of suspicion. "Do you know what it is that he wants?"

"I have no idea," the prefect admitted. "And it is not my business to pry."

"Blind obedience with the absence of faith is stupidity," Truls said. The prefect tensed and scowled before he turned to march away, clearly expecting Harry to follow without being told so again. Harry shook his head and sighed quietly before hurrying up after him, doubting that the other would bother waiting.

For an instant Harry nearly apologized. The words "I'm sorry, he didn't mean to insult you" were ready in his mouth to be voiced in order to mollify the boy, but instead of doing so Harry remained silent. Something in him had rebelled against the thought of apologizing, which was... strange. Saying sorry for every little thing has never really been an issue for Harry, so why now—?

"We're here," the prefect said suddenly, stopping in front of a gargoyle. " _Mortui vivos docent_." With great interest Harry watched the gargoyle move, step aside, revealing a spiral staircase that would doubtlessly lead to the Headmaster's office.

"Well then," the prefect huffed. "Up you go."

And up Harry went.

The Headmaster's office was... not as impressive as Harry had expected it to be. It was quite large and richly decorated, with books covering the walls and strange contraptions in various places. Headmaster Yaxley was a tall man with hard, blunt features and an unpleasant smile. Headmaster Karkaroff was sitting next to the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, who was smiling at her student - Fleur Delacour, if Harry remembered correctly. George Weasley was also there, unusually quiet and careful as he sat on one of the couches.

"Ah, mister Potter," Headmaster Yaxley said, his cheer entirely unconvincing. "Step in, son. Take a seat, er, next to young Weasley there, for example."

"Yes sir," Harry said, and it was only when he was seated that he noticed the two other individuals in the office. A witch with blonde hair set in elaborate curls and pencilled-on eyebrows was sitting while a tired-looking man with a dusty hat and a camera was standing behind her chair. The woman smiled at Harry, revealing three golden teeth amongst the pearly whites.

"Now that all of the champions are here," Headmaster Yaxley said, "we can begin. This lady here is Rita Skeeter from the Daily Prophet, and she will be writing the first group interview of the tournament."

"Feel comfortable to tell me anything, dears," Skeeter said sweetly. Her smile made Harry feel oddly anxious and not at all comfortable.

"Fleur - you don't mind if I call you that, do you - what was your family's reaction when you told them about participating in the Triwizard Tournament?"

"They were very worried in the beginning," Fleur said with a smile. "But they are also very proud of me." The feeling of dread increased, and Harry hated the thought of anyone asking about his parents' hypothetical reactions. What could he say? Oh, mum died ages ago and funny thing - dad also died recently! Oh, you didn't know that, did you? Well, neither did anybody else!

Absently Harry noticed the woman's independently moving quill write far more than what Fleur was saying, and wondered if she would truly make the girl's responses somehow more dramatic. Then again, wasn't the drama exactly what made people read?

"Mister Weasley," Skeeter then said, and unlike with Fleur, she didn't seem to have any desire to refer to George by his first name. "Victory would bring your family five thousand galleons - quite the sum, isn't it? What would you like to do with it?"

"Open a business," George said, smiling slightly. "My brother and I—"

"Charming," Skeeter interrupted, before pressing on: "Would you help your parents financially if you could?"

"What? Well, of course--"

 _'I really wonder what that quill is writing,'_  Harry thought.  _'How many lines can she squeeze out of the few words she let George say? Merlin, I don't have a good feeling about this.'_  The reporter seemed to know where to strike with her questions, and with increasing panic Harry tried to figure out what kind of questions she would throw at him.

Whatever she'd write - and whatever Harry would say - would be printed for the world to see. Including Tom. If Harry made any stupid mistakes here, what if Tom would suddenly start thinking that Harry wasn't even worth his Sundays anymore?

"Mister Potter," Skeeter finally said, turning to him. "You're quite a bit younger than these two, hm? How are you feeling about this tournament?"

"Honoured," Harry lied. "It is an honour to be able to represent Durmstrang in such a grand event." Headmaster Karkaroff mustered up a smile, clearly pleased with Harry's response.

"When your name was called," Skeeter said next, "I couldn't help but notice that Bellatrix Lestrange stood up to clap for you. How familiar are you with Mrs. Lestrange?"

"You mean," Harry said, thinking of Mette and her thirst to prove herself, and thinking of how much Bellatrix must have worked to get to where she was now. He thought of all the women who wanted to be more than somebody’s wife. "Lieutenant General Lestrange. We've met. She's someone I... truly admire." From a safe distance and with a healthy dose of fear, sure, but admired nonetheless.

The quill stopped.

"Yes," Skeeter said, her smile slightly less sugary sweet than it had been before. "Does it make you worry that people will think her biased, considering what she did despite her being a judge?"

"With all due respect," Harry said. "If you – or anyone else – would like to accuse Bellatrix Lestrange of being unfit for the role of a judge, then I invite you and dare anyone else to go and tell her so."

*

She didn't bother using charms for this, no. Bellatrix preferred to use her hands and special potions to polish her throw knives. It was relaxing, especially with Rodolphus nearby. The man had given up the pretence of reading some reports, and was simply watching her quietly now.

"Is it really that fascinating," Bellatrix asked, setting down a knife and picking up another. "Watching me take care of these?"

"Not what you're doing," Rodolphus admitted readily. "But you’re always fascinating to me. Who are you planning on using those on?"

"Whoever allows me the opportunity," Bellatrix replied, glancing at her husband. The Dark Mark on his bare forearm made heat pool in her belly, and she wanted nothing more than to press her lips against his at that very moment. And that's what she did – dropped the knife she had been polishing, moved towards the bed and crawled into it before leaning down for a kiss.

"I like this development," Rodolphus whispered, and Bellatrix kissed the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "How'd you like to use those knives, love? Stab someone's shoulder?"

"No," Bellatrix replied breathily, loving the hot press of his hands against her skin. "The soft belly, I'd say. Just... sink it in... Circe... yes..."

"I worship you," Rodolphus hissed, rolling them so he could lie atop of her, before kissing her neck softly. "Would you slice it all open and pull everything out?"

"Yes," Bellatrix sighed, closing her eyes. "I would... I would do exactly that. Perhaps I should sharpen my hooked knives instead. Sink one of those in, and when you pull it out... oh, yes." She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling at it slightly, when a knock came from the window.

"If that sound is not my imagination, I'm going to use my knives on whoever caused it," the witch hissed, and Rodolphus laughed before pressing a brief kiss against her cheek.

"It could be important," he said, rolling off her and moving to open the window. An unfamiliar bird swept in and dropped a small package near Bellatrix on the bed.

"Kill the bird," she said, reaching for what it had brought her. There was a small hand-written note on the package, and Bellatrix recognized the handwriting instantly. "Actually, never mind. Kill Karkaroff instead."

It wasn't often that Bellatrix received a letter of any sort from Igor Karkaroff, and she tended to be pleased with that fact. The man was a spineless coward and a fool, and she didn't hold an ounce of respect for him. Surely he wouldn't dare to try bribing her? She wasn't going to let the Dark Lord down by vouching for anyone unworthy.

"Seriously, Igor sent you something?" Rodolphus asked, allowing the bird to fly away. "What did he send you? A request to go easy on his champion? You told me you liked the brat well enough already."

"I do," Bellatrix replied. She saw potential in the little green-eyed Potter, but if he ended up not showing enough of that potential during the tournament, Bellatrix wasn't going to allow him the pleasure of victory. Annoyed, the woman unwrapped the package and saw a small tear-shaped object that looked like glass with smoke trapped inside it.

"A memory holder?" Rodolphus said, surprised. "Colour me curious." Memory holders were crude imitations of pensieves - an unsuccessful attempt at creating something more functional with a similar purpose. An ordinary holder could store only one memory at a time, often for the maximum duration of a week before whatever memory had been stored into it would dissolve.

"It could be a ploy," Bellatrix murmured, before shaking her head. "No, he wouldn't dare. Tomorrow's the first task... and if he was trying to bribe me, he would actually send me something of value and outright ask for a trade. You remember his ways, don't you?"

"Subtle that man has never been," Rodolphus agreed. "Well then, why don't you take a look at whatever memory he sent you?" His wife held the sphere in her hand before she sighed and lifted it to touch her forehead. A thin string of blue light emerged from the memory holder and wrapped itself around Bellatrix's head, much like a crown of sorts.

Rodolphus moved to where his wife had been sitting earlier and sat down to polish the rest of her throw knives while she relived whatever memory Karkaroff had sent her. He was admittedly curious about the Potter child - it wasn't often that Bellatrix paid attention to anyone who hadn't made an impression on the battlefield. Bellatrix's dislike for children had been clear since the moment he married her, and for her to take a liking to a kid was unusual.

It took a bit longer than Rodolphus had expected, but eventually the string of blue light disappeared and Bellatrix put down the memory holder. Her expression wasn't angry, but contemplative.

"Was it a memory worth viewing?" Rodolphus asked, and his wife nodded, still deep in thought.

"It's strange," the woman murmured. "Karkaroff sent me a meeting he had witnessed. Some journalist was interviewing the champions."

"And that was so important it couldn't wait? If it was a journalist doing the interview, then we'll be able to read about it tomorrow."

"I... I doubt that we'll read what happened."

At this Rodolphus looked surprised. "How come?"

"It's such a small, insignificant thing," Bellatrix said, but a smile was creeping at the corners of her mouth. "Rodolphus, I really want that Potter boy to win."

"What did he do to win your heart in such a way?" Rodolphus asked, his curiosity increasing. It seemed that for once Karkaroff has managed to play his cards right. "Merlin, should I ask him for tips on how to charm you?"

"Oh, you're doing just fine on your own," Bellatrix replied before she threw the memory holder at him. "Take a look. Potter's the kid with black hair. A scrawny little creature, but don't let that fool you."

"If you say so," he said, lifting the memory holder to press it against his forehead, before diving into the memory that had impressed his wife so.

*

Harry woke up before his alarm rang. For a moment he contemplated trying to continue his slumber, but he knew that he'd only end up overthinking everything and doing more harm than good to his state of mind. The first task would begin in less than four hours and Harry didn't feel ready at all.

With a heavy sigh the boy climbed out of bed, glanced at his sleeping roommates before walking towards the bathroom. After a quick shower the world seemed a little bit clearer and better organized, and somehow each layer of clothing that Harry put on made him feel more... collected. The manticore shirt that Gilderoy had bought for him so long ago still fit, and Harry felt a little bit safer knowing that he had some sort of protection under his uniform.

A few days ago Sirius had sent him not only the two-way mirror he had promised, but also James's invisibility cloak that he had mentioned. Harry left the mirror but tucked the cloak into one of his pockets before reaching for the dagger Sirius had given him for his birthday. He slid it into the sheath hidden in his right boot and made sure his wand was securely in its holster before he quietly left the room.

Much to his surprise, he found Mette in the common room, applying her make up. On the table in front of her was a breakfast for two, clearly in accordance to her tastes rather than Harry's. Regardless, the boy was grateful.

"Good morning," Harry whispered, taking a seat. The witch smiled at him, setting down her small mirror and the brush she had been holding.

"Morning," she replied. "It's good that you're awake. I had the house-elves bring something for you to eat - you won't have time for food later. How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," Harry admitted, eyeing the food. "Um, no pancakes?"

"Oatmeal is better for you," Mette said, and Harry nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. "Quarter past eight we're going to leave here and head towards the Headmaster's office. I won't go with you all the way up, of course, but it's good to have someone with you for as long as possible."

"Thank you," Harry said, undeniably surprised. "I don't even know how to repay you for all the support you've given me."

"Win the tournament," Mette told him. "That's how you repay me and everyone else."

Win the tournament. If only winning was as easy as saying the words aloud. Harry envied Fleur Delacour for the confidence she had shown during the interview, and wished for the opportunity to read Skeeter's article before the task began. It was unlikely, however, that such an opportunity would arise.

Eventually - far too fast and yet it took a lifetime - it was time to start heading towards the Headmaster's office. The corridors were empty and cold and Harry wanted nothing more than to turn back and crawl into his bed. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed when Mette suddenly stopped walking and said: "Hello, Silvia."

Harry looked at the person Mette had spoken to, and saw a young witch leaning against the window. The woman didn't look dangerous in any way, but Harry knew better than to write anyone off as harmless. She was quite short and chubby, with dark hair pulled into a bun and a small stylish hat resting on top of her head.

"Mette," the witch said pleasantly. "It has been a while, how do you do?"

"I'm quite fine," Mette replied, "in a bit of a hurry, though."

"Well," Silvia said, her smile revealing dimples on her round cheeks. "Don't let me keep you and your friend, then. Have a good day."

"Likewise," Mette murmured, walking slightly faster than before. Harry resisted the temptation to turn back and take a last glance at the witch.

"Is she a guest?" Harry asked. "How come she's here so early?"

"That was Silvia Nott," Mette whispered in response. "She's... her magic is quite average, but her mind is frightening. She currently works for Gringotts as a Runes Mistress, I believe. She's part of the vault warding team."

"How do you know her?" Harry asked, curious. Mette sighed, and offered him a faint smile. "Are you friends?"

"Anthony is in love with her," she said. "Head over heels, but she doesn't give him the time of the day. Why would she, after all, when he's four years younger than her? That's how I knew her at first – a year or so ago. But after a... an unpleasant event that I went through a while ago, she helped me and I... respect her quite a lot. I'm so excited to see you tackling the first task, Harry."

"Um," said Harry, the change of subject confusing him for a moment. "I, yeah, what?"

"You're well prepared," Mette continued, just as they reached they reached their destination. The gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office had already stepped aside, leaving the staircase behind it exposed. "So you know what to do. Just remember to not hesitate, all right? Do your worst."

"All right," Harry said, and smiled at the witch nervously. Merlin, he felt sick. He took a deep breath before he climbed up the stairs, envying Filippa and the others for being far away from this mess. Then again, knowing Filippa, she would have been far more confident than Harry about participating.

"There you are, Harry," Sirius said, and Harry was relieved beyond words to see his godfather there. The man pulled Harry towards a corner where two wizards dressed in light blue robes were preparing some vials. From the corner of his eye Harry saw Fleur Delacour with two witches decked in similar uniforms.

"What's going to happen?" Harry asked.

"We've got about an hour before we have to go to the Quidditch pitch," Sirius replied. "Give your wand to one of these gentlemen - it will be tested for any hexes or curses that could interfere with your casting today. Then, here, drink this." Sirius grabbed a vial of light pink liquid from one of the two wizards, and handed it to Harry.

"What will this do?" Harry wanted to know.

"If you have ingested any luck-enhancing potions such as felix felicis or the like, this potion will flush them out. Since you're not throwing up, you obviously haven't," Sirius said. Harry hadn't even _thought_ about cheating, and wondered if that already made him a worse competitor than the other two.

"Come on, all three of you," Sirius then said, gesturing for Fleur and George to step closer. Everywhere around them witches and wizards were either running tests on their wands or analysing the potions and finishing any last-minute arrangements. "The first task will be explained again briefly once the tournament starts, but the explanation will be rather vague and meant for the audience, not you. So focus on what I'm telling you now and you'll have a better chance at success."

 _'Here goes,'_  Harry thought, and Sirius continued:

"Once we go out there in front of the audience, all three of you will be presented with a bag filled with different items. Pick one: that will be the portkey that will take you to a remote, closed location. Your task is not to escape those premises, but to find a small silver plaque with a number etched into it. A summoning charm will not work, so you'll need to figure out a way around that."

"Do we have a time limit?" Fleur asked, and Sirius shrugged.

"Technically no," he replied. "But you will not be alone in that building. The faster you finish, the safer you'll be. Once you have the plaque, read aloud the number on it: that will activate the portkey and bring you back here. Everything you do will be broadcasted to the audience. Use the spells you know will help you and leave an impression. Now, do you have any other questions? No? Well then, take your wands back and use the next twenty minutes wisely."

Later, when Harry walked behind Fleur towards the Quidditch pitch, he realized that what was making his skin prickle and hands shake wasn't nervousness after all.

It was anticipation.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With time you can change at your own pace. Grow up slowly.
> 
> Fear forces you to change and cuts off the pieces you can't change fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ:
> 
> There are warnings in the end notes. Go read them if you wish, because this chapter can certainly make people uncomfortable. This is me telling you: no tags in the story, chapter-specific warnings in the end notes. Scroll down or don't, it's up to you.
> 
> I hope that I won't have to deal with another "closing the barn door after the horses have already left" comment.

__

Harry didn't think he had ever before seen this many people gathered in one place simultaneously – with the exception of the World Cup, of course, but even then he had been just one visitor among others. Now, it was different. Everywhere he looked there were _hundreds_ of faces turned towards him; how had he managed to forget how _awful_ it was, to be noticed by so many? It wasn't until Harry had somehow succeeded in calming himself down that he realized that people were clapping, whistling, and waving. Some were even holding banners and charmed signs in the sky.

Below his feet was the odd mirror surface that covered what had once been a field of grass, and a fair distance from one another were three round platforms that emanated some sort of yellow fog that rose a bit above Harry's knees.

"I love this," Fleur said, and Harry wished from the bottom of his heart that he could find this as enjoyable as she did. The anticipation he had felt but moments before had turned into apprehension and he had to make a conscious effort into keeping his back straight and expression pleasant.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sirius said, his enhanced voice reaching every person in the audience. "Welcome to the Triwizard Tournament!"

"Oh, my mum and dad are there," George said, and waved towards where he had seen his family. Harry looked at the cheering audience and saw Truls, Mette, and Viktor, side by side. He then turned towards the judges and saw Bellatrix looking at him and clapping, but strangely enough not smiling. She didn't seem displeased, however.

And then, on a throne separate from everyone else, with a snake partly around his shoulders and on his lap, sat the Dark Lord. Harry had never asked Tom about his obsession with keeping his face relatively unknown to the public, but he did seem far more dangerous with the hooded cloak than without it. In that instance he remembered the moment he first saw Tom as Lord Voldemort. He remembered being woken up by his parents and flooing to witness a burning, and the ghost of his mother's grip on his shoulders was something he could never completely forget.

"Let's give rounds of applause to our three champions," Sirius said, making the audience cheer even louder. "Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons! George Weasley of Hogwarts! Aaaaaaand Harry Potter of Durmstrang!"

 _'Don't they get tired of clapping?'_ Harry thought, when he suddenly saw a familiar man in the audience. Decked in what looked like white robes decorated with golden stitching and a heavily feathered hat, surrounded by about a dozen stunningly beautiful witches and wizards, was Gilderoy Lockhart. Where on earth had the man _been_ for the past few months? Harry hadn't heard a word from him for a long time, and now—

"The champions," Sirius said, his loud voice interrupting Harry's train of thought. "Will each be given the task of finding a simple silver plaque, and sent to a closed location where this plaque is hidden. Who will be the fastest? Who'll be the cleverest? We will see that soon!"

Fleur and George were still waving at their families and friends, but Harry didn't know where to wave. Truls should have been the obvious answer, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. He wanted his dad there. He wanted James. He wanted someone he could... someone who...

Harry's hands stayed down.

"I have five portkeys here in this bag," Sirius continued, levitating a small pouch above his head. "Each champion will blindly select one and go to their destination to finish their task. But! How on earth can we keep an eye on them? Rest assured, honoured guests, I did not bring you here today just to make you sit on the bleachers and chat with each other, no."

Sirius then waved his wand, and the yellow fog above the three round platforms suddenly flared, and rose up towards the sky. Startled, Harry realized that every pillar showed each one of the champions - the one closest to the Dark Lord seemed to be focused on Harry, while the one furthest away from the man was fixed on George. Fleur's was in the middle, and the witch smiled brightly at that.

"The actions of each champion will be seen by us all," Sirius said, and the audience cheered once more. "Not only today, but during the future tasks as well. Now, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the ride and pray for the champion you're supporting to succeed in his or her mission!" The man then allowed the pouch he had still been levitating above his head to drop into his hands.

 _'Anything but an Azkaban prison cell, please,'_ Harry thought with no small amount of panic.

"Ladies first," Sirius grinned.

"Charming," Fleur said, and slipped her hand into the pouch. Soon she pulled her hand out, a small cage dangling between her fingers. "You won't be sending me to a kennel, will you?"

"Oh, it's far better than that," Sirius said, and smiled at Harry, clearly intending for him to be the next to pick. Harry shook his head and allowed George to go next. The redhead pulled out a small scalpel and eyed it warily. Harry wondered if the items actually hinted at their destinations.

"Interesting," George said, before stepping aside.

"And now you, Harry," Sirius said, his smile encouraging. Harry tried to respond with a confident smile, but it came off as a grimace. He doubted that any of the options were actually better or worse than one another, and thus wasting any time on trying to figure out what each of the remaining items were was unnecessary. Harry ended up grabbing the first thing he could touch, and pulled out what looked like a tiny bed.

"All right, champions," Sirius said, "are you ready?" Not waiting for the answer, he turned to the audience. "And are you all ready to watch this happen?" The cheers were louder than ever, and the grin on Sirius's face was genuinely amused. Harry felt sick.

"Good luck to all the champions," Sirius hollered. "Show us your best!"

*

Harry didn't end up in a cell - not in Azkaban or in any other prison. Once his eyes had gotten used to the relative darkness of the room, he wished from the bottom of his heart that he could turn back and say "you know what, that cell I had already resigned myself to? Take me there".

He was in a mortuary.

 _'This is not where I wanted to be,'_  Harry thought, and then swiftly reminded himself that people were watching him even if he couldn't see them. Showing signs of fear would be an instant strike against him, and Harry didn't want that. Not when Tom was in the audience. Not when Bellatrix would be watching him as well. And yet... it was strange how standing in a train station with souls of the dead was nothing compared to being in a small room with two corpses.

Merlin, he wanted out of here and _fast_.

Now, where could a small silver plaque be hidden? There weren't many potential hiding places, but Harry didn't want to underestimate the cleverness of whoever had hidden the plaque in the room. Quietly the boy pulled out his wand, and lit up the tip before making his first round in the room, shuddering in disgust at the brown stains that could be nothing but dried blood.

When he happened upon the door, he nearly pushed it open to see what was outside. Two things, however, made him change his mind: firstly, Sirius had specifically told him and the others that the point was not to search for an exit. Secondly, Sirius had said that something would try to attack them eventually. Well, not in those words exactly, but Harry was quite sure that that was what Sirius had _meant_. And that was why instead of opening the door and stepping out, Harry used three different spells to make sure that the door was locked properly. Whoever wanted to come in would need to break down the door first.

The plaque wasn't on the floor, but then again Harry hadn't expected it to be so easily found. Not even under the dried up and dirty remains of what looked like a pile of human kidneys. Their stench was horrible.

What seemingly served as the mortuary was a rather small, square room with a few broken lamps on the ceiling and dirty tiled floor and walls. There were no windows, and the silence was heavy and absolute. In the middle of the room was a table, and on the table was the body of a witch who didn't look that much older than Harry himself. She didn't seem to have any visible injuries, and Harry wondered what kind of spell had killed her.

Near the door, by the wall, was a trolley, and on the trolley was a second body that belonged to an elderly man whose eyes - merciful Circe that was one thing Harry did _not_ want to see - were wide open. The man's body was littered with big and small wounds, one of which went from his throat to his navel.

Harry shook his head, feeling nauseated, worried, and alarmed. What if the threat didn't come from the outside, after all? What if he had managed to lock himself with it in here? What if... what if one of the bodies was charmed to stand up and attack him soon?

 _'No,'_  Harry thought _. 'Let's not think about that.'_  He held his want tighter in his hand as he continued his investigation of the room, hoping to strike gold even by accident. He remembered being tested for felix felicis and couldn't help but hope for some of that particular potion right now.

In addition to the table and the trolley, there was a small oven - what for? Harry didn't want to begin to guess - and a sink in one corner. Harry walked towards the sink first, finding it the easiest place to start with. The strangely stainless surface made him wary, and he tapped the tip of his wand against it, wondering if he would be fortunate enough for the plaque to simply drop out of somewhere. But no, no such luck.

After making sure that what he was looking for was nowhere near the sink, Harry moved to take a look at the oven. The filthy thing was stained and rusty, and unsurprisingly even dirtier on the inside. The boy poked at the charred remains of whatever had been cooked in there, making sure that there was no silver hidden somewhere under the filth. Having no luck there either, he turned to eye the table, and the body of the witch on top of it.

A sudden thought crept into his mind, and much to his horror Harry realized where the plaque most likely was hidden. Nothing in the mortuary was there just for decoration - not even the bodies. And if the plaque wasn't under the corpses or anywhere on the table or the trolley, then that left...

Harry couldn't help but grimace as he stepped closer to the table. The air was still all around him, and the sound of his footsteps felt obnoxiously loud to him in the silence of the room. Harry glanced nervously at the door, expecting something to try and barge in and stop him, and he thought fleetingly of how Fleur and George were doing. Was one of them done already? What if Harry was the only one to spend this much time on his assignment?

How much time had passed, anyway? It didn't feel like much, and yet felt like far too long. He couldn't even give the audience a show, not this way. Not while trapped in a room all by himself, increasingly frustrated. Was Sirius disappointed? Had his smile frozen on his face, drained of amusement or pride, simply there to fool the audience? No, no. Harry didn't want to disappoint all the people who were watching him. It was with this newfound determination that the boy stepped even closer to the dead witch, and reached out.

The moment the tip of his wand touched the bare skin of the dead witch, an agonized scream from somewhere outside the room split the air.

*

The first thing that Fleur Delacour became aware of was the hard, cold floor she was kneeling on. The portkey had not granted her a soft landing, and her knees ached due to the impact they had suffered. It wasn't until a moment after that that the witch paid attention to the sounds she was hearing.

Warily, with her wand in hand, Fleur stood up and tried to make sense of the darkness that surrounded her. From all around her - not even far, just a few steps to all sides - she could hear groaning, smothered sobs, and shallow breathing. In one corner there were even people talking. Her mouth set in a grim line, Fleur cast a protective shield around her before lighting up the place to see where she was.

Shrieks greeted the light, and the witch's own scream was stuck in her throat as she took in the sight of what surrounded her. Cages - dozens of cages - some big and some small, piled all around her. And in each one of those cages was a person, kneeling in the small space and either shielding their eyes and screaming, or watching Fleur with rage and loathing in their eyes. She had never - not once in her life - seen anything like this.

It was frightening. It got worse when some of the caged people began reaching out, their thin hands and broken nails trying to grab a hold of her.

Blessed Morgana, how was she supposed to search for the plaque in a place like this?

With a quick flick of her wand, Fleur cast a silencing charm on the cages before selecting one and allowing the creature – the  _human_  - inside it to keep its voice. She didn't move from where she was standing, horrified by the thought of being touched by what was surrounding her.

"Qui êtes-vous?" Fleur asked, receiving no response. She scowled, before trying again, this time in English: "Who are you?"

The man, naked and bruised and filthy, cowered in his cage as far away from her as he could get. When Fleur repeated her question louder, the man whimpered and hid his face behind his arms. The French witch pinched her nose and resisted the urge to scream in frustration. There was no force on earth that would make her search the cages one by one. However, she was nothing if not clever, and so Fleur plastered a beautiful smile on her face instead and spoke again.

"Listen to me," she said, making her voice carry as far as it could in this strange, disgusting place. "I am looking for a plaque. A small, silver plaque with numbers on it. Whoever finds it for me will be allowed to leave with me. I... I will return your voice to you now, but if you scream again, I will silence you once more."

Much to her satisfaction, despite cancelling the silencing spell, she didn't have to endure the sound of their screams. What she did have to put up with, however, were the stares. It was unnerving, the way they all kept their eyes fixed on her - those who had eyes, at any case. "You will be fed and clothed," Fleur promised, painting a pretty picture of salvation, "and I'll drop you off at any place you want, and you'll never see me again."

"Food," someone groaned, their voice fragile and brittle. "Please... I need... anything..."

"What about your kind?" a raspy voice of a woman asked, and Fleur turned to look at the woman who had spoken. Her ashen skin was marred with infected wounds and scars, and her eyes were wide and desperate. Fleur swallowed a disgusted scream, knowing that even if she had had any intention of keeping up her end of the bargain, she would certainly not be touching someone so... filthy. "Will any of your kind come after me?"

"My kind?" Fleur asked, wondering how the woman had managed to recognize the Veela in her. Then again, Fleur knew that for any witch with knowledge on the matter, it would be relatively easy to make the connection. Question was, however: why was this woman so wary of Veela?

"Witches," the woman clarified with an angry hiss, and Fleur grimaced, finally realizing where she was. She had heard that there were Muggle storages somewhere in Ireland, but had never had a reason to visit one. Many people did, however, and though hunting Muggles was technically illegal, there were places where one could ‘legally’ purchase a Muggle. It was admittedly shady business, entirely immoral and barely legal, but who could really say anything against it? It simply wasn't worth the trouble.

Fleur offered the woman a curt nod and nearly smiled when she saw the silver plaque in her filthy hand.

"Let me out first," the woman demanded, and Fleur nearly shook her head before realizing an easier way. There was no need to negotiate, really, and so she simply nodded to keep the muggle from being alarmed and pointed her wand at her.

"Stay relaxed," she ordered, and the woman nodded. "Imperio."

It was a given that the woman wouldn't be able to resist. Starved, beaten, and broken, she barely had the energy to stay conscious, let alone struggle against Fleur's spell. The witch was pleased, thinking that using one of the darkest curses she knew would win her plenty of points from the judges.

"Throw me that plaque," Fleur demanded, and the bewitched woman did as told.

"You promised to let her go," a young man in one of the lowest cages howled. "You promised to let her go!"

Fleur forced out a horribly unamused giggle, and shook her head before grabbing the plaque from the floor to read the number scratched on it. By the time the portkey activated, the whole storage was full of screaming. The last thing Fleur saw was the woman's crying face, her thin hands clutching at the bars, begging to be taken away.

*

Startled, Harry turned abruptly towards the door and raised his wand. The wailing didn't stop for what felt like an eternity, and when it did, it simply dwindled down into heavy sobbing. Right outside the door. Harry shuddered, and hoped from the bottom of his heart that whoever was there wouldn't look into the room through the small window of the door.

Moving so his back was against the wall rather than the door, Harry focused on the corpse with renewed vigor. His hands were shaking when he used one of the simplest cutting charms to split open the witch's stomach, and he had to take a step back at the horrible smell that hit him like a wave.

 _'Don't throw up,'_  Harry told himself with as much determination as he could muster, clenched his eyes shut and reaching with his hand to lean against the wall. He stepped on something soft, and he knew without watching that it was the pile of kidneys. Disgusting. He didn't want to think of what else he had managed to step on during the search so far.

The heavy sobbing turned into miserable mumbles, and it was only then that Harry could determine that the person was indeed a man - if it was a person at all. Deciding to use the bubble-head charm to help him breathe easier, Harry returned to looking for the plaque inside the corpse. He had never seen the insides of another human being from such a short distance, and had it been a... a golem or a puppet, Harry would have been able to treat the whole thing as simply educational.

Now, however, he could only hope that the witch had no family who would be watching Harry do this to her.

He was so focused on making sure that the plaque was not inside the body that it took Harry a few minutes to realize that even the muttering had quieted down. Feeling a chill go down his spine, Harry slowly looked up towards the doorway, and flinched back. A face was pressed against the tiny window of the door, and small blood-shot eyes were staring at him, glazed with tears and grief.

"Please," the man on the other side of the door whispered. "Please, let me in."

Harry's hands shook as he continued his search, becoming increasingly frustrated and frightened. He needed to locate the plaque, since he couldn't summon it, and oh-- wasn't that the solution? Angry at himself for not realizing it sooner, Harry stepped away from the body and balanced his wand on his palm.

"Boy, please," the man shrieked, his voice desperate. "Please, let me in! I won't hurt you, I promise! Look, I have no weapons on me!"

"Point me," Harry whispered, doing his best to ignore the man who was trying in vain to shove his hands through the small window. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help noticing the white, stubby fingers slick with blood. He was fiercely glad for having charmed the door to stay locked. What would have happened, had the man been able to barge in?

Harry's wand pointed towards the other corpse, specifically at the belly, and the boy renewed the bubblehead charm before proceeding with the search. As soon as he had turned towards the wizard's corpse, the man on the other side of the door had fallen silent for a brief moment, before he whispered:

"You know they sent me here for you," he said, the tone of his voice no longer fearful or desperate. It was in no way pleasant, either. "They said, if you can get the boy, you go free. I couldn't say no, you know. I don't want to die here, and if you don't open this door right now, then that's exactly what will happen to me. Would you want that, darling? Do you want to be the reason why I'm dead?"

Harry swallowed thickly and shuddered, as the man continued:

"I wanted to kill you at first," he said. "I'm so _hungry_ , boy. I would have killed you and gobbled you up like the prissy little bitch you pureblood brats always are. But I wouldn't do that anymore, not to _you_. You're _such_ a nice boy, aren't you? If you open this door now, I won't hurt you, darling. I'll show you a good time, yeah? Something mummy and daddy wanted to hide from you. You're a big boy after all, right? Open the door and this uncle can show you some games big boys play."

Bile rose up Harry's throat as he understood what the man was implying. Even the rotten intestines of the dead wizard beneath his hands were more bearable than what he was hearing, and Harry knew that if the man was to somehow barge in now - if he managed to unlock the door - Harry would shoot him with the strongest curses he ever learned. It was strange how fear made murder seem like a viable option.

"Saw your pretty eyes," the man groaned, breathing heavily. "Come on, baby, bite those lips and look at me. Open the door, sweetheart. Open the fucking door right now or I'll break it. I'll be _angry_ if I have to do that, and you won't like me when I'm angry, you _won't_. I'll grab that fucking hair of yours and shove my—"

Harry nearly sobbed with relief when he found the silver plaque peeking from under all the blood and fat. He tugged it free and wiped the worst filth off it, though it was hard to do with how soiled the sleeves of his uniform had become. He squinted at the four little numbers scratched on the surface of the plaque.

"Zero," Harry read aloud, and cringed when the man on the other side of the door began hitting it with his fists. For a moment he contemplated sending a hex through the window but didn't want to waste any time on that. Not when leaving had finally become an option. "Zero, three, nine."

The tug of the portkey had never been so welcome as then, when it took Harry away to safety.

*

George found himself standing in the middle of a square, finely decorated room with white walls and a floor covered by thick Persian carpets. It was hard to pay attention to the furniture or even the expensive, gilded paintings and vases, however, when there were a dozen children standing with their noses touching the wall at random intervals, unmoving.

"Who's here?" asked a loud, sharp voice, startling George. The wizard turned towards the source, and hastily pulled out his wand. On a chair by the fireplace was a woman, so fragile she could disappear and so wrinkled that George couldn't tell where her eyes and mouth were. Her dress was liberally decorated with pearls and ivory, and her fingers were held down by heavy bejeweled golden rings. The long, sharp nails were digging into the dark wood of a thick cane.

George remained silent, his heart thundering in his chest. He didn't remember a day when he had been this afraid, and for the first time he regretted his desire to participate.

"Who dares to come to a poor, blind lady's house," the woman said then, her voice gaining a rather cruel tone. Her eyes were now slightly ajar, but only white could be seen from them. Blind! Never before had George been so delighted to find out that someone was blind. "I heard you, you know. You ought to come and greet me lest I set my little beasts on you."

Still unwilling to speak, George silently conjured a small cat instead, setting it loose. The animal meowed, and the old woman relaxed.

"A cat," she said with a snort, before she raised her voice again. "If there's a cat in here, eat it."

And, much to George's horror, one of the little children by the wall took a few steps back from it, turned, and lunged at the cat. It was only then that George could move, the sound of his steps masked by the noise caused by the child and the cat it was eating.

Too soon the child was done, the dead cat was thrown into the fire, and silence reigned once again. George breathed as quietly as he could while looking around in the room, hoping to spot the silver plaque he had come here to look for. He was sweating nervously, knowing that if reaching the plaque required opening a drawer or moving anything, he would be caught.

For once, luck was on his side as he noticed the silver plaque on a small table across the room. It was simply there, covered by nothing that should cause George any trouble. The only difficulty now was in making his way across the room without being heard. Which wasn't going to happen easily. Not only would he have to get to the plaque, but staying so close to the hag and her children while reading the numbers aloud was bound to end up badly. The more distance George managed to put between them, the better.

Ready with another animal in mind, George took a step forward, stopping the instant the hag perked up.

"Who's here?" she shrieked again. "Who dares to come in uninvited?"

Resisting the urge to swallow, knowing that that was yet another sound that could get him caught, George wordlessly conjured a puppy and set it loose. The hag snorted, leaning back in her chair again.

"If there's a dog here," she said. "Eat it."

And once more one of the children - a girl with ribbons in her hair - stepped away from the wall and lunged at the animal. George wondered why the children did not notice him - or if they did, did not mention him to the old woman - but decided to not think of matters that were working in his favour.

Yet again George had to stop before reaching the plaque as the child was done with its meal far too fast. Yet another animal was thrown into the fire, and George felt sorry for having to conjure something that would die seconds later, and he didn't want to imagine what his family was thinking of him now. Refusing to allow his thoughts to distract him from the task at hand, George took one more step and managed to take a hold of the plaque.

"Is it a cat?" the hag suddenly snarled again. "If it's a cat, eat it!" No child moved, as there was no cat in the room. George held his breath for as long as he could, praying for a miracle.

"Is it a dog, then?" the hag continued. "Is it a dog or something else? If it's a dog, eat it!" When no child moved this time either, the hag leaned forward in her chair, and took a deep breath. George was frozen where he stood, fear making him unable to move. It was only when he thought of Fred, and the candy that they had been designing for prank purposes recently, than he figured what to conjure next.

A small canary flew a few feet further into the room, its wings flapping loudly, before it stumbled down and dropped onto a table. The hag tilted her head, her blind eyes turned to where the canary had fallen.

"I hear a bird," she said, "but I smell a boy."

The hag then fell silent, but did not relax. The fire crackled loudly, but not loud enough to hide even the faintest of whispers. No, if George wanted to be able to read aloud the numbers without being attacked, he would have to figure out how to make the place noisier.

"Boy," the hag said suddenly, startling him. Her voice was sweet, and perhaps George could have mistaken her for a kind grandmother, had he not heard her before. "Come and sit with me, son."

When no response came forth, the old woman made a disgusted sound, before she spoke the words that chilled George to the bone: "If there's a boy in this room," she started, her voice gleeful. George, unwilling to waste a single second that could bring him closer to being a snack for her freaky children, decided to forego silence and simply run while reading the four numbers aloud as fast as he could.

By the time the portkey finally whisked him away, George was nearly unconscious with pain.

*

Harry felt absurdly grateful for sunshine and breathed the fresh air with greedy gulps. The portkey had thrown him roughly on the same area it had taken him from, and the impact left his vision swimming. He barely registered the hand that grabbed his arm and hauled him to stand up, and it took him a moment to even see Sirius's face beaming down at him.

"Brilliantly done," Sirius said, enthusiastically, looking pleased with whatever he had seen Harry do. Had he seen the man behind the door? Had Sirius _heard_ what the man had said to Harry? "That was brilliant!"

"What the fuck was brilliant?" Harry said, unable to smile or collect his thoughts, and for once not bothering with keeping his words proper the way his mother had always instructed him to do. The fear that had felt so overwhelming moments ago still lingered, surrounding him like a thick, mouldy blanket that made something inside him scream. What was even worse, though, was the knowledge that he had reached a point where murder had... where killing someone he viewed as a threat had become something he would have done given the chance. And oh, had he truly reached that point so easily? The thought of simply stunning him or knocking him unconscious hadn't even crossed Harry's mind.

But if that man with his blood-slippery hands and revolting words and repulsive intentions had managed to break into the mortuary, Harry would have aimed a bone-breaking hex at his head, and nothing would have made him feel better than to see his skull cave in like a--

"No," Harry said aloud, trying to shake off the thoughts. He felt nauseated, and didn't have it in him to look at Tom or Bellatrix, or even his friends in the audience. Everything was too overwhelming, the noises were too loud, the colours too bright, and he still couldn't get his eyes to focus on anything. "Sirius, I'm not feeling good--"

"Delacour came before you," Sirius continued, as if he hadn't heard Harry's words. "But her performance, while clever, wasn't nearly as entertaining as yours. Weasley's was brilliant, too, but-- oh, there he is, just turned up. Needs healers, from the look of it. Poor lad, lost an ear." Harry's head snapped up just in time to see two healers patch George up as well as they could do right then. A few feet to the left of him stood Fleur. The witch was pale and there was a wild look in her eyes, and Harry suspected that she wasn't faring any better than he was, despite how put together she looked.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sirius hollered, and was rewarded with whistles and cheers. "The first task of the Triwizard Tournament is over!"

 _'First,'_  Harry thought, wanting nothing more than to obliviate himself. _'First of three. Graceful Circe, I will not survive this.'_

"We have had quite the show here," Sirius said. "But now it's time to see if the judges enjoyed it as much as we did. On to the grading, starting from the lady who came first: the champion of Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour!" Harry wondered where she had ended up - despite looking quite shaken, she was clean and didn't seem to have had suffered through filth.

Then again, perhaps she had had the mind to use cleaning charms, Harry then realized, while watching the judges draw Fleur's grades in the air. Meliflua's score turned into a ten, followed by Parkinson's nine and Bellatrix's eight.

"An average of nine," Sirius said. "Let's give a well-deserved round of applause to this brave young lady before we move on to the next competitor: the champion of Durmstrang, Harry Potter!"

Harry looked at Tom, though he knew that the man wasn't a judge and thus wouldn't grade him. He still felt disoriented and he needed to shower and wash the filth off of him as soon as humanly possible. It wasn't until Sirius nudged him that Harry turned to take a look at the numbers and managed to muster up something akin to a smile. A row of nines kept him on equal footing with Fleur.

He thought of the man he had left there, on the other side of the door, and wondered if he would have truly gone through with what he had implied. Had he, was he, had he really looked at Harry and decided that rather than kill him, he wanted to--

Someone would have stopped him before anything would have happened to Harry, for sure. Some things went far past the point of entertainment, and--- and George Weasley had lost an _ear_ and Circe, how was that even something that was allowed to happen? Had Sirius focused so much on entertainment that he had forgotten their safety completely?

The judges hadn’t been so impressed with him. George Weasley lost an ear and received two eights and a nine for his effort, as if his loss was nothing but an error on his part that he should be punished for. But perhaps they could attach it again? Worse injuries have been fixed successfully.

 _'That doesn't change the fact that it happened,'_  Harry thought, and oh, it had been  _such_  a long time since he had felt like the world was as wrong as it was. Women who were ignored, children who were put in danger in the name of entertainment, and millions of people looking right at it all and not seeing anything wrong. He had chosen to change Tom rather than to change the world—

No, not really even that. He had promised to...  _neutralize_  Tom, as if he was the only thing that was wrong in the world. As if without him the world would be fixed and people would stop being awful. Harry took a deep breath and stood straighter when a thought crept into his mind: a possibility. Rather than work on changing things as they are on his own, perhaps he could talk to Tom and make him see sense?

 _'He won't take me seriously,'_  Harry thought instantly.  _'Not yet.'_

But eventually, he would.

And that's why Harry finally pulled his arm out of Sirius's hold, took a few steps forward, and waved to the audience. His eyes were unfocused but his heart certainly wasn’t. With a smile he could barely keep on his face, Harry decided that come what may, he would succeed. No matter what he became in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS  
> Graphic gore (dissection, torture via starvation)  
> Sexual threats (verbal, no attempted assault)  
> Mentioned and briefly described abuse (slavery, violence, animal abuse)
> 
> More rude awakenings for Harry in the next chapter -and a particularly nasty one that concerns Sirius.


	33. Chapter 33

"There's an after-party in the Great Hall," Sirius told Harry, Fleur, and George - who was supported by the healers from both sides - as they were ushered to the hospital wing. "You'll be checked now for any injuries and treated if there's a cause for that. Don't worry, George, you'll get your ear fixed right away, I'm sure. Then off you'll go to shower - Harry, that stench of someone's intestines is _particularly_ awful. A cleaning charm can do only so much, son."

Harry wanted to find the right words that he could respond with, but found himself unable to speak. His heart felt heavy in his chest and the hand he had used to wave towards the audience felt cold and numb. He kept waiting for Sirius to stop making light of the situation, to look at Harry and say that yes, he too understood that something was very wrong. He didn't want to believe that the smile on his godfather's face was genuine.

"Your tasks will be shown again on repeat during the festivities," Sirius said, as if he was delivering a particularly delightful piece of news. "You will get to see what the others were up against. You all did really well. Everyone was definitely pleased with your performance."

"It was nothing," Fleur said, though Harry found her smile far less convincing than it had been earlier in the day. "I found the whole experience very... exciting."

"And you, Harry?" Sirius asked, his hand heavy on Harry's shoulder. "How did you find it?"

"Educating," Harry replied, thinking of all the things he had indeed learned. Perhaps not, however, the things Sirius and the others had intended. He couldn't help but wonder what his parents would have done - would they have just accepted things the way Sirius seemed to do? This wasn't the time or the place to ask about it, though, so Harry plastered a smile on his face and felt horrible for it, swallowing his tears and holding back his urge to question his godfather's sanity.

His godfather's  _morals_.

The awful feeling did not fade, not even after he had showered, taken a pepper up potion, and been redressed in a fancy set of dark green dress robes that he had never seen before. Apparently receiving anonymous, random gifts from people who considered one of the champions their 'favourite' was quite normal - Harry had seen Fleur trying on several sets of jewelry, and even George had received a beautifully crafted cane that he could lean on while his ear healed. People had been very fast with their gifts after the first task.

The Great Hall where the after-party was held was packed with people. Some sort of music was playing, people were dancing and laughing, and Harry could see wine being served at every turn. Wizards and witches of all ages were dressed in heavy, expensive robes and a vast variety of sparkling diamonds and golden rings and necklaces. Harry saw Mette dancing in the crowd, and wondered absently whether or not Truls was somewhere as well. Anthony Lestrange was hovering near Silvia Nott, who in turn was fully focused on the drink in her hand. Fleur was instantly swept away into the crowd, and George, who was leaning on the cane he had received, looked overwhelmed and sick at the sight of the dancing couples.

At the other side of the hall, on the platform, sat Voldemort surrounded by seven Death Eaters, one of them being Bellatrix. Three huge misty spheres were floating around the hall, showing the tasks that had taken place earlier in the day, and Harry felt strange watching himself struggle to find the plaque. He didn't understand much of the place George had been sent to, but seeing where Fleur had been was enough to shock him to the point of nearly falling on his arse.

A part of him, some part that had given up on finding a single good thing about today, wasn't surprised. Of course there were people locked in cages. Of course it was entertainment. Another part of him, a part so angry he barely contained it, wanted to deny what he was seeing. Deny it, find another explanation. Maybe they weren't people, maybe they were golems. Though no, he knew better than to assume that they would waste golems on a task if they had Muggles at hand.

With shaking legs Harry turned to leave the Great Hall, only to realize that George Weasley had left right before him. After a moment of contemplation, he ran to catch up to Ron's brother. George, his gait unsteady even with the cane supporting him, tilted his head heavily to the right before turning to look at Harry.

"Hi Harry," George said, his voice strangely uneven. He gestured for Harry to walk by his right side, and offered him a smile. "What brings you out here?"

"How's your ear?" Harry asked in response, and the Weasley shrugged.

“They attached it, but the hearing is gone," George admitted.  "That’s why I couldn’t dance, my balance is a bit... jinxed right now. It’s going to take some practice before I can get back to Quidditch, too.”

"Aren't there potions to bring back the hearing at least partially?" Harry asked, feeling awful. George sighed and shrugged.

"Sure, there are. But they're pretty expensive," the other boy replied, and though Harry expected him to continue, he didn't. The two walked in silence side by side, until they reached one of the corridors with a view to the lake.

“It’s strange,” George said, his voice slightly louder than Harry remembered it being. He was leaning forward, his eyes set on the lake and the evening wind ruffling his red bangs. “I lost hearing in one ear and my balance is so bad right now I need a cane and still can't walk a straight line, but somehow I feel like I can see better. I wonder why's that.”

"You're taking this remarkably well," Harry blurted out. "How can you manage that? I didn't suffer any losses but the whole tournament makes me sick."

"I don't know," George said. "I think Fred's the only one who gets it, really. Maybe he understands it even better than I do. My friends think I should be depressed, but I’m so overwhelmed by all the things that I'm already noticing better –because when you can’t hear as well as before, you have to start relying on your other senses, you know. You see more. Anyway, you said the tournament makes you sick?” Harry didn't begrudge George the change of topic, suspecting that despite the positive outlook, the other wizard didn't enjoy dwelling too much on what had happened.

"Did you see Fleur's task?"

"The Muggles? Yes."

"Are you fine with it?" Harry asked warily, and George shrugged and shook his head.

"No, not really. I think there're quite a lot of people who're not completely all right with something like that. But people are happy to be on the right side of prejudice - not the receiving end of it - so they manage to put up with how things are."

"How can they consider themselves decent folk, though?" Harry asked, and George looked at him with hints of pity in his expression.

“Our whole system tells us every day that muggles are a different species and that it’s the norm to treat them this way: of course nobody will find it wrong anymore," the Weasley said quietly. "Except, well, muggle-born students. It’s a wonder that they’re even allowed at Hogwarts, considering the way their relatives would be treated. But, Harry, I don't think this is something we should discuss. Especially not here." Harry pressed his lips into a tight line, before nodding slowly.

"I think I'll go to sleep," Harry said then. "I can't stand the thought of going back to the Great Hall to celebrate."

"You and me both," George agreed. "Good night, Harry.” 

*

Harry's Sunday session with Tom began too soon for the boy's liking, and for once he wished he could opt out of a meeting with the Dark Lord. He didn't dare to, however, in fear of Tom deciding that he wasn't worth any Sundays anymore, after all. Leaning against one of the dusty desks, Harry kept his eyes on the Dark Lord who had once again conjured a rabbit. The boy slowly shook his head, making the Dark Lord scowl.

"What is wrong with you?" Tom hissed sullenly, clearly displeased. "How can you not manage to slice up one rabbit, and think that you have any chance to win the tournament? You did quite well on your first task, but you could have done better."

"How?" Harry asked, though not really wanting an answer. "The whole task was... I _hated_ it."

"You should have unlocked the door and killed him," Tom replied, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter if you hated it. It's very accurate to what would be demanded of you as a Death Eater. Do things out of your comfort zone, isn't that what every devil's advocate preaches these days?"

"There's a difference, though," Harry said, fully aware of the risk he was taking my speaking up. "There's a difference between killing someone in a battle, and murdering someone. Just like there's a difference between war prisoners and locking up people in small cages like animals. In fact, animals shouldn't be treated the way those people were treated either."

"Oh, spare me," Tom snorted, and vanished the rabbit. "You could learn from Delacour, Harry. Now _that_ is a cold, calculating witch who sees muggles for what they are. Learn from her."

Harry felt strangely upset by what the Dark Lord had said, and shook his head before scowling. He knew that he was reckless when angry, but sometimes he simply didn't care. "If I hadn’t locked that door—“

“But you did.”

“And if the man had come in."

“You would have killed him.”

“If I couldn't have," Harry snapped, this time louder. "He could have overpowered me and stripped me and done all the things he implied he wanted to do. Would you have punished me for it the way George lost points for losing his ear?”

"That— No," Tom said, an odd look suddenly on his face. "It wouldn't have gone that far."

"See, that's what I would have thought too," Harry replied. "But then I found out that George Weasley lost his ear. Say, how many people clapped in the audience when they watched that happening?"

"You don't even know what happened," Tom snarled, before narrowing his eyes at the boy and stepping closer. "And watch your tone when you speak to me. I allow you plenty of my forgiveness. I waste more of it on you than on anyone else. However, I do not find disrespect endearing or brave. Don't take for granted what I've denied everyone else."

"You could change the world," Harry insisted, his voice far too brittle for his own liking. "You could—"

"I already  _have_ ," Tom replied sharply. "I changed the world once already."

"Change it for the _better_ , I mean! Fight against discrimination—"

"It  _has_  changed for the better. Look at how the society is flourishing!"

"You changed it to suit _you_ and the people who were already in power," Harry said, standing up and moving away from the desk. He wanted out, consequences be damned. "Your purebloods with money and power are flourishing. Anyone with muggle relations—" Harry's voice disappeared when Tom cast a silencing spell on the boy. Once realizing what had happened, Harry closed his mouth, crossed his arms, and glared at Tom.

The Dark Lord felt... alarmed.

"I have sentenced men and women to die for less," Tom said quietly, gesturing for Harry to once again sit on a chair. "I daresay if your admirers heard you, they'd accuse you of treason." Harry opened his mouth, but with the spell still on, he couldn't say a thing. Tom shook his head.

"There is no peaceful coexistence in reality," the Dark Lord continued. "You're young, you're naive. You've also lost the rest of your family recently and only yesterday experienced something that scared you. You're confused and angry and rebellious and lashing out, and that's the  _only_  reason why I will let this slide. But never again, Harry Potter. Never again." He then cancelled the silencing spell, and took a deep breath before moving on to another subject, as if that had been the end of that discussion. In a way, it certainly was.

"I took a quick look at phenomena that can create a rope made of light, but I need a more detailed description of it to be able to narrow it down to something specific. Right now it could be anything from an out of control life debt manifestation to a compulsion curse."

 _'Truls,'_  Harry thought immediately, and paled. He had been about to stand up again in order to leave, but suddenly his legs felt powerless. One look at Harry's expression had Tom eyeing him with an angry expression.

"There's something you're not telling me," the Dark Lord said.

 _'There's a lot I'm not telling you,'_ Harry thought, then shook his head while clenching his eyes shut for a moment and taking a few calming breaths. The disappointment that had swept into his whole being with every word Tom had thrown at him earlier was still there, aching strongly in his bones with a pain so deep it felt permanent. "It's probably a life debt... manifestation, thing, whatever."

"No," Tom hissed. "It's not  _'whatever'_. Tell me about this life debt. Or rather, tell me who owes you that life debt."

"How do you know someone owes me and not the other way around?"

" _Harry_."

"It's been a few years," Harry admitted reluctantly. "It didn't start out anywhere near this bad. It's been getting worse just recently."

"People glorify life debts," Tom said with obvious scorn, "forgetting that they are dangerous. Give me the name of the person and I will—"

"And you'll kill them?" Harry interrupted, feeling exhausted and drained. He finally pushed himself up and something in his expression must have gotten through to the Dark Lord, who fell silent and eyed him warily. "I'm tired. I think I'll go and rest for today."

"Perhaps that is for the best," Tom agreed. "If it will keep you away from dangerous thoughts, then do put more time into resting. We will meet next Sunday again and discuss how you'll be rid of that life debt. Focus on your studies and the tournament, and leave matters that you don't understand out of your thoughts."

"If I must," Harry muttered, reaching the door and unlocking it.

"Harry," Tom called after him, making the boy stop and turn. The Dark Lord's expression was something Harry couldn't quite figure out, when the man continued: "Schools aside, you are _my_ champion. Act like it. Once you win the tournament, your whole life as you live it now will change."

Harry closed his eyes, his fingers curling around the doorknob, as he tried to collect his thoughts. He knew that he would need to endure things he would hate, and he had already decided to do his best no matter what. With this in mind, Harry nodded.

"I... I won't disappoint you again."

But the further away he walked from the classroom, the more he thought of all the things that needed to change, and the things his talk with George Weasley had made him realize: only muggle-born students would understand the necessity of change, and risk what they had to bring that change. He needed... he needed to recruit a muggle-born. Someone smart. Someone cunning and brave who could only benefit from the change.

He needed to recruit Hermione Granger.

*

Before continuing with his plans regarding Granger, Harry decided to drop by Sirius's office. The time spent with Tom had left him tired and anxious, but the anger he couldn't let go of made him feel restless. Even if he went back to the dorm room, he wouldn't be able to sleep.

He wasn't sure how to discuss what was bothering him to Sirius. The less people knew about how he truly felt of the way things were run now, the more space it would give him for doing whatever he needed to do. Harry greatly suspected that Sirius, while not necessarily entirely satisfied with Voldemort's action throughout his reign, was content enough to not mind keeping things the way they were. However, absolute separation from Muggles was one thing, and oppression was another issue altogether.

He could blame Tom for many things, but none of it changed the fact that the one who had designed the tasks of the tournament had been Sirius. He had been the one to decide that it was all right to have muggles in cages, and had considered everything that had happened something acceptable and even expected. Harry couldn't forget how casually Sirius had treated George's injury, and it was hard to accept that his godfather would be…would be like  _that_.

 _'Then again, how stupid can I be,'_  Harry thought as he reached the painting that hid the doorway to Sirius's temporary office.  _'I never thought that there'd be a reason why Sirius was part of Voldemort’s Inner Circle. Of course he wouldn't be like James.'_

With that in mind, Harry knocked at the painting and didn't have to wait for long before it was pushed aside, and a delighted Bellatrix ushered him in. "Cousin!" the witch all but shrieked, her thin arms wrapped around Harry’s shoulders with unsettling ease. "Look who's here!"

"Harry," Sirius said, grinning widely as he turned away from a man Harry recognized as Rodolphus Lestrange. "What a surprise!"

"If you're busy, I can come later," Harry said quickly. He hadn't expected to find anyone there with his godfather, and truly didn't think that it would be wise to spend more time around Bellatrix than what was absolutely necessary. The witch had a clearly different opinion on the matter, her grip on Harry unfaltering as she led him towards one of the chairs in the office.

"Yesterday was fantastic," the witch whispered loudly, sitting down right next to Harry and speaking to him with familiarity that Harry couldn't understand. He had never spent time with Bellatrix before - not properly - and yet the way she treated him spoke of a relationship that couldn't possibly exist. "You did such good job, Harry."

"Thank you, ma'am," Harry said carefully, and the witch smiled widely.

"Just call me Bella, darling," she told him. "Such a thrill, wasn't it? That mudblood behind the door, trying to get to you. What would you have done if he had somehow managed to break the door? Did you have any spells in mind?"

Recognizing the benefits that would come with Bellatrix's approval, Harry did his best to sound proud when he said: "A bone-breaker to the skull. It would have been... effective." It was a funny thing, though not amusing at all, how a lie could taste like ash in his mouth.

"That would have been a sight to see," Sirius chortled, and though Harry knew that his godfather was quite good at acting, his amusement was too obviously genuine this time. He clenched his fists to hide the shaking of his hands, and tried to ignore the sick feeling that seemed to fill him from right below his heart. He knew then that despite all the love throughout the years, despite all the support Sirius had given him so far, Harry wouldn't find the common ground between them in this case.

"Well, Harry," Sirius continued, "what brings you here today?"

Hideously uncomfortable with the thought of saying anything that could be considered even slightly incriminating in front of the Lestranges, Harry latched on to the first thing he could think of: "It's about my dad. You said we can't delay it forever. I want to make a statement."

His words made the smile on Sirius's face disappear, and while he didn't frown, the man certainly didn't seem pleased either. " _Now_? Harry, I don't think-- Well, wait for just a minute, then. We'll talk about this soon enough."

"That means he's kicking us out," Rodolphus Lestrange said, and offered Harry the kind of smile he could imagine for a man who didn't smile much. "Bella, unhand the boy."

"If I must," Bellatrix replied, rolling her eyes. She lightly kissed Harry's cheek before standing up. "Until next time, cousin."

"Until next time," Sirius said, echoing her words. As soon as the couple had left, he locked the door and turned to look at Harry with a troubled expression. "So, you want to..."

"Tell the people that James is dead, yes," Harry cut in, and as he said that, a sudden twinge of satisfaction surprised him. Yes, he wanted to tell the world about what had happened to his father, but... he... He didn't even understand why the thought of doing something that had seemed so terrifying and impossible before, was suddenly exactly what he wanted to do –most urgently!

"I think you should wait," Sirius replied. "It's too soon. I mean, I know I told you that it needs to be done soon, but really, you've still got some time left. I don't think anyone even questioned why James wasn't present to watch the first task."

"No," Harry said, keeping his eyes fixed on Sirius and noting the twitch in his expression and feeling somehow... strangely satisfied. "I want to do it."

"And you  _will_ ," Sirius assured him. "Just not right now. I need to prepare myself." It made sense, surely. Harry knew that he couldn't fault the man for wanting to prepare for any reactions that would come his way once people found out about James's death. And yet, what had earlier been vicious satisfaction was now anger. Unfamiliar anger that didn't mean bursts of courage and grand rebellions. This time it wasn't about bravery, or doing the right thing. He didn't know what to name the feeling that wanted him to come up with something to say, something so harsh that Sirius would feel a fraction of what Harry was feeling.

The words came to him from some corner in his heart. A corner he hadn't even known before. Harry stood up from his chair, eyed Sirius with undisguised anger and said: "Do you  _ever_  get tired of prioritizing your own feelings?"

"Pardon?" Sirius blurted, an expression of shock on his face. "Harry, what--"

“I know you say you love me, but do you actually realize that I’m a  _person_?” Harry asked then, feeling hot and cold at the same time. "Why are you always so hung up on yourself, your views,  _your_  suffering? He was my  _dad_ , you know. My father. The only family _I_  had left. And instead of realizing that I have to live without him, you only focused on not having a friend you barely spent time with after mum died.”

"You're one to talk," Sirius shot back instantly, scowling. "I can't recall you spending too much time around him, or am I wrong?"

"Maybe it escaped your mind," Harry said, feeling anger and sadness so deep it seemed to reach every corner of his body. "But I was at a boarding school. Think about that for a while, and don't talk to me until I can look at you without wanting to hex  _you_  with a bone-breaker."

He left, wondering how things could turn to the worst so fast, and how anger could exist as strongly as love in his heart.

*

The corridors were mostly empty, which Harry was glad for. He did not feel like talking to anyone, and the thought of having Truls or Mette asking him about what was making him upset made Harry feel even worse. How could he explain to them what had made him so disappointed in Sirius? He had thought that his ever-increasing annoyance with the man had been solely due to what the tournament had revealed of his beliefs towards muggles, but the more he thought of how Sirius had handled James's funeral, the angrier he got.

Was it fair? Perhaps not. Harry didn't know.

All he knew was that he couldn't count on Sirius to support him the way Harry wanted him to. Like George had said, too many people were simply relieved to not be on the receiving end of the racism and abuse. They wouldn't march for the equality of others if it came with the risk of losing something they had. However, when it came to oppression, standing silently and feigning neutrality worked only to support the bully.

It was strange for Harry that he felt more helpless in the face of Sirius's prejudice than Tom's. Tom hated muggles. He... Harry knew that Tom enjoyed hurting and humiliating them, as if to say: "look, we are both human. But I am superior." Tom did what he did with full understanding of the fact that he was being cruel and while he recognized the right of muggles to exist, he simply chose to ignore it for his own amusement.

Sirius, on the other hand, approached the whole matter with moral blindness. He didn't think that the treatment of muggles was unfair because he didn't consider them a species worthy of being acknowledged. It's as if the connection between muggles and muggle-born witches and wizards was something he didn't comprehend. Absence of magic meant absence of worth to him, and Merlin, if that logic didn't explain the way many Purebloods treated their squib offspring.

Harry was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't see the person approaching him until they cheerfully called his name.

"My dear Harry," Gilderoy Lockhart all but sang, swaggering closer towards the boy. "What a troubled expression you have, my young friend. What's wrong?"

"Where've  _you_  been?" Harry blurted, eyeing the man approaching him with confusion, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. "Do you even work here anymore?"

"Of course I do," Gildy replied. "I had a book signing tour so a substitute covered for me for a little while. Did you miss me terribly? Ah, once you've had a taste of the company of your idol, it's hard to give up, isn't it? Well, never fret--"

"It's been well over a month, that's hardly a little while."

"I am here now."

"Yes, I can see that," Harry said. "If you don't mind, I'll just--"

"Your performance yesterday was interesting," Gildy interrupted, and Harry scowled. The older wizard eyed him with a slightly weary expression before he gestured for the boy to follow him. "My new office - I moved and redecorated, you see - is right around the corner. Let's go, I have a few things to ask you about."

"Hopefully nothing to do with the entertainment I provided yesterday," Harry muttered, following Gildy reluctantly. He didn't usually mind the wizard, but right now he felt too restless and angry and sad to really be able to put up with anyone. However, it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to be, and simply walking away would be rude.

Gildy's office reflected its owner well, with numerous paintings of himself hanging on the walls and books and awards scattered everywhere. The man pushed him to sit on a colourfully decorated chair and took a seat right across from him. Moments later food appeared on the table between them, and it was only then that Harry realized how little he had actually eaten since yesterday.

"Mulled wine," Gildy said, handing Harry a mug of the hot, spicy drink. "Alcohol-free, of course. Grab a cinnamon bun, Harry, they're absolutely divine."

They were. They really were. The mulled wine reminded Harry of all the Christmases that he had spent with his parents, and the cinnamon buns brought so many fun, happy memories of the time before Durmstrang, before death, before the Tournament. There was a terrible ache in his heart and it wasn't long before he felt tears burning behind his eyelids. He didn't want to be angry. He was sick of being disappointed.

Harry wanted to leave. To go to some far-away country, buy a small house in a peaceful town and live without any of the worries that plagued him. But how could he, when there were so many who weren't allowed to even exist simply based on who they were born to be? Harry didn't want to become one of the people who ignored the suffering of others simply because it didn't affect him.

It wasn't until Gilderoy reached forward with a napkin that Harry realized that he was crying. Accepting the napkin from his former tutor, the boy wiped his tears as best as he could, and leaned back on the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Is it the tournament?" Gildy asked. "Why don't you ask your father to visit? Perhaps some comfort from family could--"

"James died in the summer," Harry replied, wondering if he would have to repeat the words to a journalist soon. Gildy's eyes were wide as he stared at him, before he grimaced.

"I'm so sorry," the man said. "I... I didn't know. Was there an announcement? How are you feeling? You're fourteen, is your godfather--"

"There was no announcement," Harry cut in. "James died. Then Sirius had him buried. I didn't-- There was no funeral and no announcement. Sirius doesn't think that we should make a statement about James's death yet but I disagree. I feel like... I just. I disagree." How on earth could he tell Lockhart that the longer his father's death remained a secret, the more Harry felt like he was dragging the man's ghost around with him?

"Do you know why your godfather does not want for the information to be revealed yet?" Gildy asked, refilling Harry's cup. "You're one of the three champions, it's a matter of a few short weeks before a curious journalist decides to take a look at your life story and reveal what happened on their own terms. And that will be unpleasant. I know how journalists are."

"I know," Harry said. "But what do I do? How do I handle them?"

"You want to make it known? Despite your godfather's wishes?"

"If I can."

"Oh, you most certainly can," Gildy said. "There are plenty of reporters milling around, aren't there? Any of them will be delighted if you approached them. The difficulty isn't in finding a journalist or even with making them interview you, no. The hard part is making them write what you want them to write."

"And how do I do that?" Harry asked, feeling a smidge of hope stirring in his heart. "How could I possibly succeed in that?"

"The first thing to keep in mind," Gildy told him with an easy shrug, "is the importance of keeping their favour. To prevent your journalist from turning against you, you must make them believe that if you're satisfied with what they write, you will give them access to exclusive interviews. It's a commitment. A relationship. Or rather: an affair. Keep them satisfied and don't give them vague answers. I know it’s tempting and I know that a lot of politicians do it, but vague answers can be twisted to suit any purpose.”

"And... I don't want that?"

"No, you don't want that. You want to be in control."

"Okay," Harry muttered, and put down his drink. "What else should I know?"

*

By the time Harry returned to the common room in the evening, he felt exhausted, yet slightly better. Talking with Lockhart had given him an idea of what his next step would be, and though there was a lot that still remained unclear, it was still better than nothing.

"There you are," Truls said as soon as Harry stepped into the common room. "Did your tutoring really last this long?"

"No," Harry admitted, allowing his friend to pull him towards one of the available armchairs by the fire. "I dropped by Sirius's office to talk with him."

"Did you take a look at the Sunday Special yet?" Mette asked from the couch, narrowing her eyes slightly at Truls who was leaning against the armrest of the chair he had pushed Harry into. "Some local newspaper is covering the tournament."

"The Daily Prophet," Maria Rurik said, waving the paper in question in her hand. "The Daily Prophet's Sunday Special. There's one article that mentions the champions, though. Have you read it?"

"No," Harry replied. "Not sure if I want to."

"It's not too bad," Mette said. "Maria, read it aloud, will you?"

"Sure thing," the other witch said, clearly delighted as she pulled the paper closer to her face. "No interrupting me, though!”

“Yes, fine, whatever.”

> _“_   _The long-awaited Triwizard Tournament has finally begun, and what a beginning it has been! Sirius Black, the man in charge of the tasks - and indeed the whole tournament - has truly surprised us all with an unexpected bout of creativity and intelligence. One wonders if there were perhaps cleverer forces behind the plans that carry his signature."_

"Oh Merlin what a thing to imply," Ingrid gasped, clearly appalled. "Does she have anything to back that up with?"

"No interrupting!" Maria reminded her sharply, before she continued:  _"This reporter had the pleasure of interviewing the three champions who gave us all quite the show on Saturday. Fleur Delacour, the champion of Beauxbatons, entered the tournament full of confidence and finished it with each one of her dyed blonde curls intact."_

"Wow," Mette said. "Catty. I like it."

> _"Miss Delacour, not entirely a human herself, did not seem to struggle when dealing with Muggles. A secret source close to the champion claims the reason to be rather simple: Sirius Black, known for his numerous adventures with beautiful women of all kinds, had kept her well-informed on what she would need to do."_

"Did she just imply what I think she did?" Harry asked, feeling sick. "Sirius would _never_ —"

"Either she's dumb as hell or she has some sort of immunity," Mette said. "´That's... that's kind of horrifying."

> _"Her performance - not as exciting as that of the other two champions - was vastly improved by a flawless use of the Imperius Curse,"_  Maria read. _"The witch, who’s known for getting everything she sets her mind on, is clearly very familiar with casting this particular spell. Miss Delacour, whose beauty stems from the daring dash of uniqueness that her Veela blood brings to what could have otherwise been a pure lineage, tearfully revealed that her parents were reluctant to allow their daughter to participate. What could have changed their minds? Perhaps information of what her task would be?"_

"She's not a human?" Anthony Lestrange yelped, and Harry saw an expression of pure disgust on his face. "Circe, how can any wizard— Ugh, I feel sick."

"Tell me about it," Maria muttered, pursing her lips. "Anyway, back to the article:  _the champion of Hogwarts, George Weasley, was from the beginning far less confident in his own assessment. Years of poverty have taught this young man how to watch out and be careful, it seems. It is for certain, though, that the grand prize of five thousand galleons would save his family from the brink of starvation and keep them well fed until at least some of the seven Weasley children have managed to find themselves jobs to aid in supporting the rest."_

"Weasleys," Anthony sneered. "That family might be pure in blood, but that's where their worth ends. Poor, weak, and pathetic, that's what they are."

> _"Despite the high danger he was in during the task, Mr. Weasley_ ’ _s performance was adequate at best and left much to be desired - not to mention: it resulted in the loss of his ear. His reliance on tossing innocent animals to be devoured was impressive to some, but this journalist wonders if it is a sign that decent folk should watch out for. Remaining one point behind the two other contestants, Mr. Weasley will have to bring forth a genuinely impressive performance in order to catch up."_

"I doubt he is," Mette drawled. "A psycho, that is."

"I agree," Anthony said. "That'd make him actually interesting, though."

 _"The third champion, Harry Potter of Durmstrang,"_  Maria read, her voice louder with excitement.  _"Could easily be mistaken for a second year Hogwarts student."_ Harry flushed, and ducked his head when he heard the muffled snickers of the others around him. Truls patted his arm consolingly, but it didn't help Harry at all.

> _"This reporter wonders if the 14-year-old boy has a chance in winning against the considerably older and more experienced competitors in the long run. The youngest champion of the three lived through frightening moments when an adult man threatened him from the other side of a locked door, and this journalist sincerely worries if Mr. Potter_ ’ _s sleep will be disturbed by nightmares of what could have happened."_

"Aw," Mette cooed. "Will your sleep be disturbed, Harry?"

 _'I don't want to ever sleep again,'_  Harry thought, and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

 _"Though young Mr. Potter’s performance did not manage to show us the alleged superiority of the Durmstrang students, it was enough to garner him a positive response from the judges_ ," Maria continued, before she sighed and shook her head. "The rest is about the judges. Nothing interesting there."

"It could have been worse," Truls observed, and Harry nodded.

"I agree, just look at what she wrote about Delacour," Mette said, shaking her head. "I'll be surprised if the writer of the article doesn't get into trouble with some of the things she said."

"I don't think that she will," Viktor suddenly said, and then flushed when everyone turned to him. "I mean, it happens. Bad news and such. Journalists have the legal permission to, ah,  _speculate_."

"Figures," Mette sighed.

"Say, Maria," Harry said. "Who wrote that article? Skeeter, right? What was her full name again?"

"Hold on," the witch said, eyeing the article in search for the name. "Ah, here it is. Skeeter. Rita Skeeter. Why?"

"No reason," Harry lied, a plan already coming together in his mind. "Just... wondering."


	34. Chapter 34

Finding Granger after classes on Monday was rather easy: she was in the library, hunched over a piece of parchment, working on what Harry assumed to be her homework. Her bushy hair was pulled into a ponytail and held together by a Ravenclaw tie, barring the few rebellious curls that framed her face. The wizard stood silently for a few moments, observing, before walking closer and sitting down on the chair across of her.

"Not now, Ron," Granger said, not looking up from her parchment and not even pausing with the writing she was doing.

"It's actually Harry," said Harry, startling the girl.

"Sorry," Granger said, staring at him with wide brown eyes before clearing her throat and smiling awkwardly. "Hello."

"If you're not, um, too busy," Harry started, returning her smile hesitantly. "I'd like to talk with you about something."

"Sure. I'm almost finished with my essay anyway. What can I help you with?"

"Would it be possible to talk somewhere else? It's a bit... um, private. Private matter."

Granger bit her lip and eyed him for a few quiet moments with a worried expression, before nodding and gathering her things. "I know a place. We can cast privacy charms if you want, even though it's unlikely that anyone will find us there anyway."

The place that Granger led him to was a small wooden hut near Hogwarts' infamous forest. The girl unlocked the door with a wave of her wand, and locked it as soon as Harry had followed her inside. She then cast multiple privacy charms - some were so complicated that Harry wouldn't dare to even attempt them - before sitting down and looking at him with a polite smile.

"Go on, then," she said, and Harry nodded, sitting down as well.

"First, I want us both to take a Vow of Secrecy," he said, pulling out his wand. "Because I'm about to talk about things that I really, really shouldn't speak of."

"Of course," Granger agreed easily and reached forward to touch the tip of his wand with her own. "We cannot directly or indirectly use any of the information revealed here for the purpose of attacking or harming each other. Those are my terms."

"I accept," Harry said, genuinely approving of her request. "We cannot reveal anything discussed here to anyone else, unless we both agree to it. Not by outright stating or vaguely implying. Not with written or spoken words. Those are my terms."

"I accept." Granger nodded, and a small blue spark passed through the wands. After that was done, the witch leaned back on her chair with a small smile, looking now far more at ease than she had been moments before. "All right, what is so dangerous that it needs all this?"

"You saw the first task," Harry started, and Granger grimaced, looking slightly nauseated by the mere mention of it.

"I did," she said. "Vile. Utterly barbaric."

"I agree," Harry said. "But not many do. Even people who could swear up and down that they would never torture or hurt another human being, were perfectly fine with what they saw."

"I know." Granger sounded tired and miserable. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I tried to speak with other people about what happened," Harry said, thinking of Tom. "I was told in no uncertain terms that criticizing how things are done is treason."

"That is _ridiculous_ ," Granger huffed angrily. "What kind of government cannot handle criticism?"

"The kind of government that depends on a combination of brainwashing its people and withholding important information in order to stay in power," Harry said, feeling both fearful and strangely empowered by saying those words aloud. "Think about it! The whole superiority structure is based on nothing but delusions of people who think that blood makes you superior. They justify their crimes by dehumanizing their victims, and the media helps them! When has the Daily Prophet ever questioned any of the Dark Lord's actions?"

"Never, because that would be suicide," Granger said. "People don't really know how heavily controlled the supposedly free media is. I'm surprised that you don't agree with that way of thinking, to be honest. It would be so much easier for you to just go along with everything."

"Easy, but not right," Harry said. "What kind of human would I be if I could look at all that is happening and find it acceptable?"

"A normal citizen, I suppose." Granger shrugged, looking angry again. "But, well, what to do about it? Change doesn't happen just by wishing. And I really cannot agree with the Rebels either, you know. I've investigated their ideologies - the ones that they have publicly declared, anyway - and their focus seems to be _opposing_ the Dark Lord rather than actually  _fixing_  any of his... wrong decisions."

"Really? I hadn't... I didn't know that. I don't want to join the Rebels either. If possible, I would just like to... find out an alternative way to change things for the better."

"That is going to be incredibly difficult."

"Without a doubt," Harry agreed. "But not impossible. And I'm not saying that you and I together can change the world. I'm just saying that is has to _start_  from  _somewhere_."

"Why me, though?" Granger asked, crossing her arms. "No offense, Harry, but you barely know me."

"You're smart," Harry replied, "but there are many smart people out there. You're also a muggleborn. I think that you can see the importance of what I'm suggesting we do."

"You think that after what I saw, I'll consider helping you an act of self defense," Granger surmised, narrowing her eyes. "And technically, you haven't really suggested we do anything yet."

"Wouldn't it be?" Harry wanted to know. "Self defense, I mean. People are not becoming more tolerant, not really. They're getting more and more used to the horrible treatment muggles and many creatures get. Soon they'll be so desensitized that the people who will need the thrill they get from hurting muggles--"

"Will move on to the next best thing," Granger finished for him. "Muggle-born witches and wizards. And their families."

"Imagine this," Harry continued. "A young muggle-born wizard - maybe he just graduated from Hogwarts - is walking home one evening when an Auror who figures out that  _hey, that's a muggle-born_ , decides to hurt him. It won't help if the guy kneels down with both of his hands held up - with the way things are going, the Auror can kill him right then and there, and you'll have almost every pureblood in the country saying that the muggle-born attacked first."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know already," Granger sighed. "You also haven't told me yet what we're supposed to  _do_  about it."

"So you're in?" Harry asked. "You'll work on this with me?"

"Not like I have any choices, do I? I really doubt that I'll be able to work for the Ministry, no matter how good my grades are. And other places are even less likely to hire me in the future. Do you want another vow?"

"Next time. We'll need to think more carefully about the wording in case we want to recruit other people eventually."

"We will," Granger said. "So, what are you planning on doing?"

"Okay," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "Before I start with what we'll do now, there's something about me that you must know. It's... something I can do that others can't."

*

It was nearly two hours later that Harry and Granger - well, Hermione now - left the hut and headed back towards the school. Both had a lot to think about, and Harry felt better than he had in a while.

"That will be our regular meeting place," Gra-  _Hermione_  whispered, meaning the hut. "I'll figure out a way we can contact each other discreetly. Generally, however, the less people see us together the better."

"Agreed," Harry said. "It's almost dinner time, isn't it? How about you head there first and I'll follow in a few minutes." Receiving a smile and a nod in response, Harry watched his newest friend - ally? - hurry towards the school, leaving him alone. It wasn't particularly cold that day, but Harry found himself glad for remembering to wear his jacket regardless as he chose to take a walk before either going to the Great Hall for food or returning to the common room where his classmates probably were.

He... he would need to talk with Truls soon. He'd actually prefer to have his best friend's support over Granger's, but what if Truls's opinion of Harry changed after getting rid of the life debt? What if Truls started to think that Harry had  _enslaved_  him or something? How much of his loyalty had been really  _him_ , and how much of it had been the life debt's compulsion? There was so _much_ that Harry didn't know, but needed to figure out sooner rather than later.

Most importantly, though, he'd need to make sure that dissolving the life debt wouldn't harm Truls in any way. He'd have to talk with Tom again and convince him that murder was not a viable solution to every single obstacle in life, no matter how well that logic had worked for the Dark Lord in the past.

Harry walked slowly, deep in his thoughts, until a loud voice from behind some pillars caught his attention. It was truly a luck chance that he caught Skeeter arguing with a wizard, waving her obnoxiously coloured quill at the man with a furious expression on her face. Harry crept closer, trying to make sense of the words while quickly coming up with a way to use this opportunity to his advantage.

"—have the freedom and duty to write what I see!"

"You're lying, that's what you're doing!" the wizard cried angrily at her. "Can't write a decent article without those tricks of yours, eh? Wonder how you got the job in the first place, Rita. Did you suck Rudolf's cock to get an in?"

"No," Skeeter shot back. "I leave those stunts for people who need them - namely _you_. I hope you brush your teeth before kissing your wife with that mouth, Benjamin."

"You—"

"Is there a problem here?" Harry said, stepping forward with his wand leveled at the wizard.  He wasn't sure if the plan he had in mind would work, if Skeeter would actually fall for it, but he could at least give it a try. "Keep your hands where I can see them, please. Are you a reporter? I know Miss Skeeter is, but are you authorized to be on the grounds?"

"He's a reporter, but he doesn't have the permission to be here," Skeeter was quick to say, tucking her quill into her purse while hunching her shoulders, trying her best to look more vulnerable. "Perhaps he should  _leave_  before someone  _reports_  him."

"Indeed," Harry agreed, eyeing the man whose gaze lingered at the Durmstrang coat of arms. "I trust you'll find your way to where you're actually permitted to be?"

"She's got you hooked, hasn't she?" the man asked, shaking his head with mock pity. "I've already finished my business here. Good day."

"Good day, he says," Skeeter sneered as soon as the other reporter was out of sight. "A terrible man, isn't he?"

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, managing to sound at least somewhat concerned.

"Oh, I am," Skeeter replied, her voice sugary sweet. "I was lucky that you were nearby, though. You Durmstrang students have quite the reputation." A reputation that she had questioned quite liberally in her previous article, Harry remembered.

"I must admit that it was no coincidence that I came closer when I heard your voice," Harry told her. "I was looking for you."

"Oh, really?" Skeeter's eyes narrowed for a moment, but her smile remained sweet and unfaltering. "How come?"

Rather than speak immediately, Harry began walking slowly, pulling the woman along with him. "I liked your article," he finally said. "You're witty. Sharp. Intelligent."

"You flatter me," Skeeter tittered, though Harry knew better than to believe that she had bought his words at face value. "I'm just a simple reporter. Though I do take care of the Sunday Specials of the  _Daily Prophet_ , covering the tournament as it takes place."

"It's the truth," Harry lied with a shrug. "I read your article - and the articles of a few other reporters - and I honestly cannot trust anyone but you to report on what happens in the Tournament. Not that the others are  _bad_ , really... They just...  _well_. They did their best, I'm sure." Skeeter's sweet smile melted into an openly smug one as she preened at Harry's compliments. She tucked a curl of her bleached blonde hair behind her ear and looked at him from over the rim of her glasses.

"I respect your job and fully acknowledge its importance. It does upset me, though, how short our interview was cut last time," Harry pressed on. "I felt as if you were being sabotaged. I mean,  _maybe_. I wouldn't want to accuse anyone and I'm sure nobody would dare to-"

"Oh,  _Harry_ ," Skeeter moaned, her hand coming to rest on Harry's arm. "Your words truly bring me comfort. None of the Headmasters enjoy my presence here, not truly. And the other champions are _terribly_ rude towards me. To have your support means  _so_  much."

Harry wasn't sure how he managed to keep the smile on his face despite how close Skeeter was suddenly standing. "I just wanted to tell you that if there's anything you wish to ask me... I mean, I don't want you to think that I would ignore you or refuse to give you an interview."

"Even if I asked you for one right now?" Skeeter asked suddenly, her eyes gleaming. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all," Harry replied, trying to not let on how happy his success was making him. This was certainly something he could skip dinner for. "In fact, I'd be honoured."

_CHAMPION TO THE RESCUE!_

_Young Harry Potter, the charming Durmstrang Champion, stunned us all with his performance last week. This reporter clapped right along with everyone else as Mister Potter returned after completing his task, raising his hand high with a confident smile on his lips. Little did anyone know that the smile that brought happiness to the hearts of many, was hiding behind it a tragedy._

_Harry Potter, the last living member of his family, lost his father in a terrible accident in the late days of summer..._

*

"...lost the last of his family and is currently in the questionable care of his godfather," Truls read aloud, standing in front of Harry while clutching the Sunday edition of the  _Daily Prophet_. "Harry, what the  _fuck_?"

"Language," Ingrid said, eyeing both Harry and Truls with concern. "Don't start fighting now."

Harry, who had been sitting on the couch by the fireplace while listening to his best friend read Skeeter's article with growing anger, shrugged.

"A fucking  _interview_ , Harry?" Truls's voice was rising, and he flung the paper into the fire. "Is this how I'm supposed to find the important news about you these days? Through the  _Daily Prophet_?"

"Don't yell at me," Harry snapped, standing up. "I'm tired and I have that tutoring session in an hour. I'll go take a nap if you don't mind."

"Well I  _do_  mind," Truls said, following Harry into their dorm room. Anthony Lestrange was on his bed, but one look at the expression on Truls's face had him gathering his books and leaving to the common room. "I do mind, Harry! It's bad enough that you've been ignoring me for  _days_ -"

"I haven't," Harry interrupted, sitting down on his bed and kicking off his slippers. He hadn't expected this reaction from the other boy, though perhaps he should have. Somehow Truls's anger made Harry want to cry.

"Did I do something wrong?" Truls asked then, his voice suddenly softer as he moved closer. " _Please_ , Harry. Did I hurt you?"

Harry clenched his eyes shut, knowing there was one way he could calm Truls down and stop the fight. He didn't like it, but he liked the fight even less. "I'm the one who's hurting you," Harry told him, his voice brittle. "You just don't know it."

Truls was silent for a few moments, before Harry heard him sigh heavily. The next he knew, Truls was on the bed as well, pulling Harry to lie down with him. Harry did so readily, allowing the other boy to wrap his arms around him, surrounding him with warmth and comfort.

"Explain," Truls said, rubbing Harry's back and enjoying the feel of him. "How do you think you're hurting me?"

"It's the life debt," Harry whispered, his nose pressed against Truls's throat and voice slightly muffled by the other boy's shirt. "Remember? The one that... You remember. You  _know_. I've been feeling it more and more lately, and I know it must be sorted out and dissolved, but what if you won't like me anymore? What if you  _think_  you like me, but when the life debt is gone, you look at me and think 'Merlin, look at how much time I've wasted on this guy'. And then you'd leave and I wouldn't have you anymore, and-"

Harry hadn't actually meant to say that much. He most certainly hadn't expected to cry, but he did. He ended up sobbing so hard his whole body was shaking, and he could only imagine what Truls would think of him now.

"Stupid," Truls said, and rolled them on the bed so he could lie on top of Harry and wipe his tears. "Stupid, you're so _stupid_."

"Shut up, I'm  _serious_."

"I know, and that makes this whole mess even more pathetic."

" _You_  know I'll always like you," Harry sniffled, rubbing his eyes and starting to feel embarrassed for his brief crying fit. Could he blame the stress for it? "You don't have to worry about waking up one day to your best friend saying he doesn't want to see you again."

"Stupid," Truls repeated fondly, before he pushed Harry's hands away from his face and looked down at the other boy, making him squirm.

Harry liked the feeling of being pressed against the bed. He felt anchored, almost relaxed, and somehow more put together. Truls's smile was doing strange things to him, and he didn't know if this was normal or if he should push the other boy off and leave early to his appointment with Tom. Tears were forgotten and there was an odd feeling inside him: it curled around his heart and the pit of his stomach and somehow got into his lungs too, making everything strangely tingly. He was aware of every inch his body touched Truls's, and it made him restless in ways he didn't quite understand.

Amusement was long gone from Truls's expression when he bent down again, pushing his way to lie comfortably between Harry's legs. Harry closed his eyes when he felt Truls's dry lips against the corner of his mouth, and for that moment everything stood still. His heart was beating hard in his chest and he felt as if that light touch had knocked the wind right out of him. 

Harry turned his head and sighed softly when Truls's mouth covered his own, coaxing it open with experience that Harry would readily envy if he wasn't reaping its benefits. Before he even realized that he had moved, one of his shaking hands was tugging at Truls's blonde curls while the other was gripping the back of his jacket. He felt hot and heavy and when he wrapped his legs around Truls, he couldn't help but moan loudly at what the friction was doing to him. To them both.

"Harry!"

Mette's voice startled the two boys, and by the time the witch had opened the door, she found a flustered Harry tugging his jacket on while Truls was looking for something under the bed. She eyed them silently for a few moments, a speculative expression on her face, before she sighed and shook her head. "I thought I'd remind you that you have that tutoring session of yours in less than five minutes."

"What?" Harry yelped, alarmed. "That can't be!"

"Who knows what you were up to," Mette said, her tone implying that she knew _exactly_ what they had been doing. "But it seems to have made time pass by quickly for the two of you. So stop blushing and start running."

"Er, right," Harry stammered. "Um, thank you. I'll be out in a minute."

"Whatever," she said, closing the door again. Harry knew he couldn't afford to sit there any longer, but he couldn't move quite yet either. Truls coughed, finally returning from his hiding place and sitting on the floor by the bed. His pleased little smile made Harry even more flustered, and he knew he would be late by the time he finally changed his clothes and went to find Tom.

But, ah, kissing Truls was so different from kissing Björn. He decided to not tell Truls that, though.

*

"You're late." Tom had been already annoyed, and Harry's tardiness didn't help that at all. The Dark Lord scowled at the boy, before gesturing impatiently for him to sit down. "Do I want to know your reasons?"

Harry thought of what he had been doing, and blushed. "Probably not."

"Tell me anyway," Tom ordered, glowering at the boy who didn't seem to notice or pay attention to his bad mood at all. "Share some of that knowledge that's keeping you so chipper, why won't you. I'm sure I'll appreciate it."

"I don't think it's something that would make you happy," Harry resisted, before wondering if the older man would actually be of any use in this case. Surely Tom had some sort of experience with, well,  _people_. "Then again, what do I know."

"Exactly," Tom said, transfiguring one of the uncomfortable chairs into something better. "What do you know? Tell me. With any luck I'll find it entertaining."

"Truls kissed me! He and I. We kissed. It was brilliant." Harry's happy smile reminded Tom of foul-smelling Christmas candles and choirs made up of hungry children and dirty snow surrounding a filthy orphanage. The rage that was suddenly alive in his bones was calm and sharp and  _strong_ , making the Dark Lord smile. "I was worried that he wouldn't like me if we dissolved the life debt, but he said he—"

"He won't like you once we dissolve the life debt," Tom interrupted, knowing exactly what kind of tone to use to convince the boy. Firm, sympathetic,  _sorry_. Even a little bit amused, just to emphasize his next words. "How can you think he-  _Harry_ , the boy doesn't control his feelings _at all_ right now. If he kissed you, isn't that simply the life debt making him respond to what  _you_  want?"

"But—"

"I hate to say this, Harry, but... it's not him. It's  _you_." Now that he knew that this Truls boy who owed Harry a life debt and the boy who kissed him were the one and same, Tom could  _definitely_  use the information to his benefit with little effort.

Harry's green eyes were wide and unblinking as he stared at the Dark Lord for a few long moments. The man could see the horror rising inside the boy as the smile that had frozen on his face crumbled into nothing. He could  _see_  the moment Harry remembered that the life debt was still very much in place and that one kiss under its influence wasn't proof of anything. The boy didn't realize that there was no way for the life debt to do that, not really and not like that, and Tom wasn't about to tell him the truth. He  _liked_  misunderstandings when they worked in his favour.

Harry felt cold and numb and unsure, trying to come up with any counter argument to convince Tom that he was wrong.

He couldn't find the words.

"And once the life debt does get dissolved," Tom continued, sitting down in front of Harry and brushing the boy's hair gently away from covering his eyes. His touch was light and cold and so horribly tender. "Once that is done, do you think he will really have the heart to tell you that he doesn't return your affection, Harry? Or would he hold you and feel sorry for you? You wouldn't wish that for a friend, would you?"

Harry shook his head mutely, lacking both words to say and the desire to speak. Tom smiled with mock sympathy, marveling at how little did it need for insecurity to get out of hand in some people. One day he would find a subject close to the boy's heart and hurt him with it until he'd cry, but not today. Tom didn't enjoy Harry's tears if they were for the loss of something that had nothing to do with the older wizard.

"It is clear now that the longer the life debt stays, the more complications it will bring to you," the Dark Lord said. "If you want to win the Tournament, you really cannot afford being this emotional. Circe, why couldn't you postpone your feelings or something?"

"Can we dissolve it soon?" Harry asked, feeling hollow. How on earth could happiness be drained so quickly out of a person? He had been so _happy_ after his meeting with Gra-- Hermione and his talk with Skeeter. The moment he had shared with Truls had been even more amazing than the other two put together. And now, with a few words from Tom, the happiness had become nothing but a fading memory.

"I do not blame you for wanting to do it as soon as possible," the Dark Lord replied. "I did find a way, but you will simply have to trust me with its efficiency. Most spells are in a language you wouldn't understand."

"As long as Truls doesn't die," Harry said. "Then it's fine. I can handle whatever happens to me."

"I'll remind you of those words after the second task of the tournament," Tom said calmly. "It's in a few weeks, if I remember correctly. Right before your Christmas break."

"Really? Nobody told me."

"I believe that your godfather will be sharing that piece of information with you all next week. We can take care of the life debt during the holidays. You'll spend that time in my house, of course."

"You want to spend Christmas with me?" Harry asked, surprised. "Well, it's not like I have anyone else either."

Tom glowered at him. "We will be taking advantage of the free days to dissolve the life debt without having people notice any possible side effects. And do remind yourself that unlike you, I could spend my Christmas with anyone I wish."

"Just because people are afraid of saying no to you and kicking you out, doesn't mean you actually  _have_  them, you know."

"You are a horrible child."

"Yeah," Harry sighed, letting out a humourless laugh. "I can't even get my best friend to like me without somehow forcing him."

"We are  _not_  discussing that anymore," Tom snapped. "Stop talking about him. We moved on. You didn't get your heart broken."

Harry thought for a second, trying to figure out the mess of everything that he was feeling. "I don't know..."

"Potter, you are  _fine_."

"I feel awful."

"Merlin, boy, if you feel like this after one kiss at the age of fourteen, you'll be a wreck by the time you graduate. You will simply tell that boy of yours that your morals – _hah!_  –cannot allow you to take advantage of him," Tom snapped. "Now, enough of this nonsense. I have a shield charm for you to learn."

Harry nodded slowly. Yes, he could tell Truls that they shouldn't do anything until the life debt was dealt with…and maybe after that— Maybe things would turn for the best after all.

*

He was surrounded by silence.

The temporary office he had set up at Hogwarts was nowhere near as comfortable as the one he had at home. This one had a few of his books and none of the fun nooks and crannies where he could hide anything from bags of candy to artifacts that no one had any business knowing about. Here, at Hogwarts, all Sirius had was a leathery chair, a big desk, and a generously sized fireplace.

Well, it wasn't  _bad_. There were soft carpets and thick curtains and a few paintings of lovely ladies who preened whenever Sirius would look at them. Now, though, the light coming from the crackling fire wasn't quite enough to chase most of the shadows away, leaving those paintings in darkness.

Sirius sighed, reaching for the bottle of Ogden's before leaning back again. There was so much that needed sorting out, but he didn't know how. Trying to deal with Harry was like steering a broom in absolute darkness - he had no idea where to go or even if he was moving forward or backward. Every time Sirius thought of Harry, he thought of the things his godson had said and of the look of utter loathing he had received. What on earth had he done to deserve any of that resentment? Where had it even come from?

Did the Dark Lord know something?

Sirius hadn't wanted to think about it - in fact, he had carefully avoided thinking about it so far - but there was no denying that something was going on between Harry and the Dark Lord. The mere thought of that worried Sirius more than anything. It wasn't simply the matter of Lord Voldemort knowing immediately how to get to Harry when James had died, but the Dark Lord had also been the one to nominate Harry as one of the Champion Candidates of Durmstrang. Sirius wasn't blind or stupid, and even if some would call him paranoid... he knew that something was going on. Nothing the Dark Lord did was a simple coincidence.

So what did it mean?

Objectively, Harry should have been well below the Dark Lord's radar. Even for a Durmstrang student, he was far too... noticeable. For a child who had been nearly invisible years ago, that was quite the change. Perhaps Sirius was approaching this wrong, maybe it wasn't the Dark Lord who had sought Harry out first. Maybe it was the other way around. That would mean, though, that not only had Harry managed to catch the man's attention, but also _keep_ _it_.

How?

How much of Harry did he _really_ know?

With a deep sigh, Sirius set the bottle down and eyed the copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ 's Sunday Special from a week ago - the one where Skeeter had interviewed Harry and revealed James's death. Sirius knew Rita, and he knew how vicious and unkind she was, how masterfully she toed the line between speculation and libel. And yet every word in that article praised Harry as if Skeeter had never met a finer wizard in her life. What had Harry _done_ to buy her like that?

Had Lily and James been alive, would Harry be the same child Sirius remembered from the happy times before Durmstrang? Would he be the quiet, pleasant child whose head and heart had been full of stories and fairytales? Or would he still be the angry young man who turned out to be so _different_ from how Sirius had always imagined him as?

"Well, isn't this a wake-up call," the Death Eater said aloud, the sound of his voice startling in the still silence of the office. He didn't want to lose Harry, especially if the kid was on the verge of making powerful enemies. No matter how many oaths Sirius had taken for the Dark Lord, Harry would always come first. If that meant getting to know Harry from the beginning, then so be it. Starting from zero. Sirius knew, theoretically, how to do this. How to make amends and apologize - or was it the other way around? Apologize and make amends?

No matter. Not the point.

He yawned, pushing himself off the chair and heading towards a small staircase at the back of his office. The living quarters of whoever had occupied the office before him had been very humble indeed. Or perhaps this was Yaxley's way of proving some sort of point that no one but the damn bastard cared about anyway.

"Idiot," Sirius muttered. Then again, Yaxley wasn't the only idiot, was he? Sirius had managed to make a mess of his relationship with Harry, and he hoped that the boy would find it in himself to forgive him. He needed some good advice on how to work on their relationship, but the only one Sirius suspected he could get decent advice from was a werewolf in the basement of his home. What a joke!

 _'All right, but what would Lupin say,'_  Sirius thought while brushing his teeth. _'No matter what I tell him, he always picks Harry's side and thinks I'm wrong. So whatever I say, he'll probably start with: Black, you're wrong. Again.'_

He couldn't  _actually_  go to Grimmauld Place to ask Lupin for any advice at the moment - not with the second task on the horizon. Sirius was far too busy with his job to get anything else done, no matter what it was. However, perhaps on Christmas he could actually do something? Yes, he could take Harry to Paris for a lovely dinner and they could talk and maybe Harry would forgive him and explain why he was so angry all the time.

Until then, Sirius was free to focus on his work without feeling guilty, wasn't he?

*

The Great Hall was crowded once again, the students whispering amongst themselves excitedly. Harry sat between a hilariously unhappy Lestrange and some Hufflepuff who kept glancing at him every ten seconds with a strangely hopeful expression. Truls sat across from him, having accepted Harry's reasons for limiting contact for the unforeseeable future despite being clearly confused by it. Mette was eyeing her own cleavage with a smug expression, before she looked at Harry and said:

"I bought a new bra. It's fantastic, isn't it?"

"Um," Harry said, looking at her chest with a worried expression. He didn't notice a difference, but then again he wasn’t particularly familiar with them anyway. "I'll take your word for it."

"Students, please." Headmaster Yaxley's voice cut through the chatter, silencing the students in an instant. The man, dressed in yet another fashionable outfit, eyed the students with a condescending smile on his lips. "Soon Lord Black will tell you about the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. And while I am certain that all of us are curious and eager to hear what he has to say, I must tell you first about a matter that concerns every student from fourth year and above."

Harry kept his eyes on Sirius, trying to look for signs of stress or lack of sleep. Anything to show him that the man was affected by the distance between them. He didn't find a thing, however - Sirius was as well put together as he always tended to be. His hair was neatly done, his robes were stylish, clean and wrinkle-free, and the smile on his face didn't seem to need any kind of effort from his part.

"The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional and much loved part of the Triwizard Tournament. It gives us all an opportunity to socialize with our friends from distant lands and enjoy some time together. The ball will start at eight o’clock two days before Christmas, finishing at midnight here, in the Great Hall."

Harry didn't even ask himself if he had any right to feel angry at his godfather. He simply  _was_.

"The Champions and their partners will be expected to open the ball with the first dance."

"Oh, Merlin, no," Harry whispered, Yaxley's words pulling him out of his anger-filled thoughts. Truls snorted, clearly amused. Even Lestrange looked suddenly pleased.

"Do you know how to dance, Potter?" the older boy asked, ready to make fun of him in a heartbeat. The bastard.

"Of course I do," Harry hissed in response. "I just don't like it."

"Now," Headmaster Yaxley said, glancing at Sirius. "It is time for Lord Black here to tell you more about the task that we all are looking forward to!" Taking this as a good reason for applause, the students around Harry started clapping while his godfather smiled charmingly at his audience.

"We all have been waiting for this, haven't we?" Sirius started. "The Second Task is near! And I promise you all - it will be even more entertaining and exciting than the first!"

 _'Just what I wanted to hear,'_  Harry thought miserably. _'Merlin knows what that is supposed to mean.'_

"On Monday the nineteenth of December, the second task will begin at nine o'clock. We will all gather at the Quidditch pitch and each champion will once again be sent out on a mission," Sirius said. "This task will be the champions' opportunity to show us all the spells they've learned and the abilities they can utilize in order to succeed."

 _'Is he just recycling the first idea?'_  Harry wondered, before he dismissed the thought. No, even if what Sirius was saying now sounded familiar enough to give an impression of the first task, it most definitely wouldn't be.  _'Perhaps Sirius was being misleading on purpose? Being sent out on a mission can mean pretty much anything. The only thing we can tell for sure is that the task won't be happening at Hogwarts.'_

"As you are already familiar with the judges, I will not reintroduce them today," Sirius continued. "Instead, enjoy your meals and look forward to both the Tournament and the Yule Ball! Thank you!"

"Harry," Mette said. "You have to ask me to the Yule Ball. I want to be the first one dancing. I want all the eyes on  _me_."

"Delacour will be dancing as well," Lestrange pointed out. "Also, you're taller than Potter. You'll look like his big sister taking him out on a stroll. Which, admittedly, would be a pretty funny sight to see. Go ahead, Potter. Ask her to be your partner for the Yule Ball."

"Never mind," Mette said coldly, glaring at Lestrange. "I'll have someone else escort me. Someone who is not English, since Anthony here just reminded me of how irritating British boys can be. No offense, Harry."

"Um, none taken," said Harry, who wasn't really sure of what had just happened. "I don't know who to ask, but we have plenty of time until I actually need to have someone, right?"

"Wrong," Maria Rurik said. "Ask one of the locals, though. Or someone from Beauxbatons. We already spend enough time with you."

"Circe, you know how to make someone feel special, don't you?"

"What do you think the next task is like," Krum suddenly asked, and flushed red when Harry turned to look at him. He continued, speaking slowly and pronouncing his words carefully. "I mean... do you have any... guesses?"

"I have no idea," Harry admitted. "A mission somewhere could mean anything. I just hope it won't be looking for something inside another locked room."

"Maybe this time the item will be easy to find but hard to get," Lestrange said. "He did say that you'll be showing off the spells you know. The best way to do that is by dueling somebody, isn't it?"

"Oh, that sounds like so much fun!" Maria exclaimed, reaching for one of the spinach pies. "Dueling! I love that!"

"Yeah," Harry sighed, resisting the urge to reach for Truls. "Fun."

Merlin help him, he was already afraid.


	35. Chapter 35

"So Muggles have healers _specifically_ for teeth?"

"Yes. They're called _dentists_ , though," Hermione explained, scribbling down something on a piece of parchment. "Not healers. Can you renew the heating charms? It's getting a little bit chilly in here."

The two were once again in the small hut Hermione had taken Harry to days ago. Together they had cast privacy charms of a bit more permanent nature, and the witch had told Harry that she'd look up a few runes to make the security better. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best they could do with what they had.

"One of the things that we can do is support muggle-born business owners," Hermione said suddenly, looking up at Harry and gesturing for him to sit down. "If their businesses grow, their need for workforce will grow as well. And they won't be as discriminatory of who they hire as the pureblood company owners tend to be."

"How do we do that?" Harry asked. "I mean, I see the value and I agree with it, but if it's just the two of us—"

"First we do some research," Hermione replied. "We keep track of muggle-born owned businesses and what they do. And then we simply promote them when we get the opportunity to do so. For example rather than buying trunks from Rocherdale's - they give clearly better service to purebloods anyway and their discrimination is really obvious - we can both encourage the people around us to buy from Cleveley's. There are lawyers and healers and experts from all professions who are overlooked simply because of their heritage. Subtle suggestions that promote those people can do a lot in the long run. Most importantly, however, this sort of thing seems rather innocent. No one can accuse us of anything even if we get caught."

"I'm _so_ happy you're doing this with me," Harry admitted suddenly, feeling relieved at how seriously the witch was taking this. Hermione gave him a quick smile before she continued:

"There are many other long-term things that we can do. One of our goals should be to form a team of lawyers who tackle the inequalities in the current legal system one by one. Oh, and we also need journalists to help with influencing the perceptions of the public. And reliable Potion brewers. And—"

"We can write a list of the long-term goals," Harry hurried to say. "But what are the things that we need to do right  _now_?"

"We can start by listing the muggle-born owned businesses," Hermione told him. "I can do that. You should focus on winning the tournament and becoming as famous as possible. That will help a lot when we start with the promotions. And before I forget - who takes care of the fan mail you get? I'm certain that there'll be some sponsorship offers in that pile. Most importantly, though, we need to start drafting out the confidentiality contracts for any new recruits."

"I think the secrecy part of that is what we need to focus on the most," Harry said immediately. "To make sure that they can't take any actions that carry the purpose of revealing what we do without our consent."

"Absolutely," Hermione agreed with a nod. "Also restrictions against sabotage. Or harassment of other members, because that is also a risk."

"Do you think people will actually agree to our terms?" Harry asked, feeling hesitant and worried. "They won't think it's too much?"

"What our terms mostly focus on are simple security measures," Hermione replied. "If the recruits don't have any intentions to harm us, then it's not much to ask for at all. If they don't agree with our project or do not wish to be involved, then they can carry on with their lives as if they never knew about this."

"Hold up," Harry said, an idea suddenly crossing his mind. "Could we have that as another safety measure? In addition to the Unbreakable Vow that we'll have them take, I mean. If they decide to back out, we can  _obliviate_  them." The witch bit her lip and frowned, thinking about Harry's suggestion for a few moments.

"I don't know," Hermione said finally. "Isn't that a bit... dangerous?"

"It's illegal," Harry told her frankly, "but we can make that option clear to them from the beginning to get their consent."

"Do you know how to obliviate?" the witch asked. "I mean, I know in  _theory_ , but erasing specific memories rather than just a general timeframe is very difficult."

"I do," Harry lied, thinking first of Tom and then of Gildy. If he could get Gildy to teach him how to obliviate people successfully, it'd be one more thing he could keep hidden from Tom. Being underestimated in certain aspects would bring its own benefits in the future. "I'll need a while to practice, though."

"That's all right," Hermione said. "We don't need it right now anyway. We should first organise everything in order to be able to present a professional front. We need a long-term plan and security systems and financing and some sort of headquarters and— Oh, Merlin. There's so much to do!"

"We can focus on two things for now," Harry decided. "That promotion thing you talked about earlier and planning."

"The second task is too soon," Hermione sighed. "But we'll get you to promote something before the third task."

"If I live that long," Harry said, thinking of what had happened to George. "I'm not completely sure about my own survival. Or, well, maybe survival is the wrong word to use. I know I can pull through. It's what I need to  _do_  in order to pull through that worries me."

Hermione looked at him for a few moments, a serious expression on her face. "You think you'll... have to do something unpleasant."

"It's a violent game," Harry said. "It shouldn't be entertainment."

"Make them see that, then," Hermione said. "If you can."

*

"We have less than a week until the second task," Tom said, rolling his eyes and definitely _not_ analysing the reasons for the annoyance he was feeling. Harry's constant concern for that friend of his was highly irritating. Didn't the boy understand that his silly little crush would go nowhere? "We will not start undoing the life debt until after you've recovered from that. I've told you this already. A complicated ritual like that will require many sessions and will be a very exhausting, occasionally painful experience for you."

"I'm not asking to work on it _right now_ ," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying that I would really like to hear more about the ritual that you suggested we use. And by suggested I mean the part that came after  _'Harry, this is what we will do'_. What are the steps? What is required? What does it _really_ do to undo the life debt?"

"That would distract you from preparing for next Saturday," Tom said. "And you cannot afford being distracted. You don't know what the task really is - no, really, you have _no idea_. Your godfather didn't tell you anything useful at all. So you will just have to trust me when I tell you to be very prepared. Think about _that_ rather than... letting that friend of yours put his mouth anywhere on you."

"What?" Harry squinted at the man with a baffled expression, unsure of what to address first. How can a grown man be so complicated and problematic? How did he succeed in saying and doing all the wrong things, time after time?

"Don't do that," the Dark Lord ordered, scowling at the young wizard. "You look ridiculous. It's too late to change my impression of you now but could you at least pretend to have some dignity? Merlin, we’ll have to fabricate a charismatic public persona for you from scratch, won’t we."

"You said that the ritual will be painful to go through," Harry started, ignoring the man's words. "What about Truls? Will he feel anything at all? It would make sense if he did, he is after all the other half of the whole—"

"He won't feel a thing," Tom cut in, and technically he wasn't lying. The boy wouldn't feel a thing. And after all was said and done, Harry would probably be upset, but for how long could he carry a grudge anyway? He was a teenager - an ordinary one, not like how Tom used to be - so probably not very long. "Now, moving on to the task."

"Sirius said we all will be sent out on a mission again."

"It's nothing like the previous task."

"How so?" Harry was quick to ask. "You don't have to tell me what the task is. Just tell me how it's different from the first one."

"Are you even _trying_ to get information out of me? That was a ridiculously clumsy attempt," Tom snapped. "Merlin, you're better off outright asking, at least  _that_  wouldn't be an insult to my intelligence."

"Fine," Harry huffed, exasperated. "What's the second task going to be like?"

"I won't tell you," Tom replied smugly, leaning back on the chair he had conjured to sit on. "But shame on you for trying to cheat."

"Tom!"

"I can give you tips, but nothing is free in this country. Especially not useful information."

"Circe, you're annoying," Harry glowered. "What do you want?"

"Some respect would be a good start," Tom started, unable to completely hold back his smirk. Harry doubted that the man had even tried. "What I want you to do, though, is to stop holding back. It’s very boring and underwhelming to see you hold back and hesitate and deal with whatever moral crises you apparently have every time you’re about to make a decision of any kind. I want you to win the next round with an overwhelming advantage. That is a simple request, no? In fact, it's hardly even a request - everyone else seems to be aware of the necessity of effort."

"I don't fail on purpose," Harry protested, slightly offended. He had tried his best, but even if he relived the events of the first task now, he still wouldn't open the door. No matter what Tom said. "Besides, I got a great score last time, didn't I?"

"You could have been better," Tom said. "And the next task will allow you the opportunity to exceed everyone's expectations. You will be taken somewhere else but this time it's an open-ground hunt that lasts for three days."

" _What_?"

"It's an open-ground hunt that—"

"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time," Harry interrupted. "But what does it  _mean_? Hunting? For  _three days_? Hunting what? _Where_?"

"I'm not going to tell you more than that," Tom said, quite clearly enjoying making the younger wizard scowl and glower. The bastard. "You'll do just fine with the information that I've given you. What you need to do next is make sure that your victory will be absolute. Make it something I'll enjoy watching. Something that I can compliment you about."

By some miracle Harry managed to not blurt out some sort of protest, remembering just in time the importance of making Tom believe that Harry's attitude towards his ideologies was changing. He also decided not to ask about any possible compliments Tom would give Delacour who had caught his attention once already. Because Harry didn’t  _care_  if Tom complimented Delacour. The Dark Lord could go ahead and compliment  _anyone_ he wanted and it wouldn’t matter to Harry at all. Instead the boy said, "I'll show you what I can do. You'll be surprised."

"That's the spirit," the Dark Lord replied. "Just keep in mind that I'm the only person you want to impress."

"Knowing your standards, that does not help."

"Well, your life was never meant to be easy anyway."

 _'I know,'_  Harry thought, trying to ignore the misery welling inside of him.  _'Merlin, like there was any doubt about that.'_

*

“I feel sorry for you,” Maria said, pushing the homework she had been working on aside and looking at Harry. “I mean, despite your participation in the tournament, you still have to do the same exact amount of homework that the rest of us do. Doesn’t that upset you? The second task is in three days but here you are, working on your homework instead of preparing for it.”

“It doesn’t really matter if it upsets him or not,” Ingrid said from her seat near the fireplace. “Besides, if you think you’ve got a lot of homework, just wait until you get to your final year.”

Harry, who was trying to focus on his Charms essay,  _did_  feel like it was unfair to expect him to keep up with his homework and exceed expectations in the Tournament. He didn’t dare express his feelings aloud, though. Then again, the annoyance was easier to deal with when he had Truls and most of the other Durmstrang students studying around him as well.

“I miss Durmstrang,” Mette sighed. “This castle might look good but it’s so very old fashioned.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Harry said, looking at Truls. “Have you received any mail from anyone there? Filippa or Jakob or Petronella? Because I haven’t received  _anything_.”

“I haven’t either,” Truls replied. “Maybe they think we’re busy and don’t want to bother us? Or they could be waiting for us to contact them first.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, nodding. “I’ll write Filippa a letter as soon as I’m done with homework.”

“Filippa,” Truls repeated, sounding strangely pleased. “Not Clemens?”

“No,” Harry said, despite the feeling at the pit of his stomach and the memory of Clemens that made something inside him clench. “Not Clemens.”

“I wonder if we can invite some of our friends from there to attend the Yule Ball with us,” Maria suddenly said. “Merlin, it would be great! Much better than attending the ball with any of these Hogwarts boys.”

“You’ve been asked?”

“By two guys so far.”

“I’ve lost count of how many people asked me,” Mette sighed happily. “I know some girls already asked you out, Truls. Have you said yes to any of them yet? What about you, Harry?”

“Nobody has asked me,” Harry told her, far more interested in hearing about the girls who had asked Truls than discussing his own lack of a date. “Who asked you?”

“I don’t know their names,” Truls said. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I said no.”

“Nobody from our school is going to go alone,” Ingrid said sharply, scowling at Truls who shrugged unrepentantly in response. “It’s a matter of image. Next time someone asks you, say yes. Unless they’re a Mudblood, of course.”

“I already have a date,” Mette bragged cheerfully. “All the eyes will be on us, so even if your date is ugly, you needn’t worry. Nobody will even notice you.”

“And you, Potter,” Ingrid continued, as if Mette had said nothing. “You  _especially_  must be picky when it comes to selecting your date. You’re the Durmstrang champion and cannot be seen with just anyone. I’m sure you know someone here who deserves to be your date.”

“Or ask one of the French girls,” Maria suggested. “There’s one in particular… I don’t know her name, but she’s stunning.”

“The Veela?”

“No, not the Veela. I think this girl is half-Algerian or something? I’ll point her out to you later.”

“Your date doesn’t have to be a girl, by the way,” Mette said, and for some reason Harry felt less anxious all of a sudden. Less anxious but more embarrassed, as if Mette was revealing something that Harry didn’t want anyone else to know. Which was odd, because she wasn’t. “I saw one of the Hufflepuff boys eyeing you up a few days ago. An older student, I think—”

“I’ve heard nothing good about Hufflepuffs,” Truls cut in. “Besides, the Yule Ball isn’t something we need to worry about yet. Homework first, and then the second task. After that is done we can start thinking about the ball.”

“Circe, and to think that the second task is three days away,” Maria sighed. “Are you nervous? The first task made  _me_  nervous and I was just watching it!”

“I’m a lot more nervous about the Yule Ball,” Harry lied. “I don’t think that panicking will help me at all with this task. Whatever it ends up being.” A three-day hunt would require for Harry to keep his mind clear, and he’d be damned if he let Delacour’s performance outshine his. He didn’t want to lose to her again.

It was a ridiculous feeling and Harry couldn’t understand why it was such an issue to him. His desire to win was all about the influence he could have afterwards, and was not tied to his self-esteem in any way. He didn’t think that he’d be less of a wizard if he lost to Delacour.

And  _yet_.

“Whoa, what’s with the face you’re making now?” Maria asked, leaning closer to Harry. “Something bothering you?”

“You guys saw Fleur Delacour’s performance, right?” Harry said, leaning back and pushing the essay aside for a moment. “What was great about it? I mean, if you were judges, what about her performance would impress you?”

“She was ruthless,” Ingrid replied, sighing and closing the book she had been reading. “Ruthless and efficient. Both of those things are good. However if you’ve seen the articles that reflect the public’s views, people weren’t entertained by her. She was efficient to the point of being boring. Her performance was clinical and swift, but it wasn’t the entertainment that we were promised.”

“I agree,” Maria said. “I liked Weasley’s performance the most, though. Sorry about that, Harry, but Weasley’s act was _intense_. He even lost an  _ear_.”

“Is this about improving your performance for the second task?” Mette asked curiously, and when Harry nodded, she continued: “Then simply keep in mind that people really _do_ want a show. We want to be surprised and shocked and feel captivated by what we’re seeing.”

 _‘And you see no problems with this show you’re looking forward to?’_ Harry thought, but didn’t dare say a thing. He’d do as Hermione had suggested and focus on performing well in the second task. The best change he could bring would come through the influence he’d hopefully have afterwards.

“Well,” he said after a period of silence. “I hope you’ll find what’s coming up even more… entertaining.”

*

Giving the audience a show they’d be entertained by was far from Harry’s mind when he was led with the other two champions towards the Quidditch pitch. He felt sick, the manticore shirt he was wearing under his uniform felt heavy, and he’d much rather be in his bed. He had a dagger in his boot and a pouch of galleons, unsure of how useful they’d be but still hoping for the best.

George had given him an easy smile and a pat on the back, and Delacour continued being depressingly flawless while ignoring Harry completely. It suited him just fine. Harry didn’t think he could bring himself to talk even if there was a need for it. Walking into the Quidditch pitch and looking around him, Harry couldn’t see a single empty seat in the audience. People were cheering, there were even banners raised and Merlin – were those _cheerleaders_?

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Sirius began, his voice echoing loudly for all to hear. To Harry he looked like a stranger in an expensive set of robes, and he wondered if they’d ever go back to the people they used to be. “Welcome to the second task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

 _‘I wonder if Hermione is here,’_ Harry thought, before sighing heavily. It would have been nice to ask Hermione to go with him to the Yule Ball but considering how their friendship would need to be kept secret, it simply was not an option.

“There have been quite a few rumours about this task,” Sirius continued, smiling brightly. “Some bets as well, eh? Are you  _that_  curious to see what’s ahead?” The cheer of the audience made his smile turn into a mischievous grin. The man waved his wand and suddenly there were three bottles and three familiar plaques floating above him.

“Once again,” Sirius started, “the Champions will be sent off to different locations. Only now… the playground is bigger. No more locked rooms! No more simple solutions! What we have here for you, instead, is an adventure unlike any other! The Champions will show you not only their power, but their cleverness and survival skills. Could a show  _be_  any better?”

It couldn’t, surely. His reputation depended on it.

“You see three bottles here above me,” Sirius continued, enjoying how attentively the audience and the Champions were listening to him. “These are full of Polyjuice Potion. It’s almost ready, but is missing one important, final ingredient. The one that is added at the last minute after a month of waiting. Oh yes, we all know what it is – a part of someone else’s body. A hair, or a nail… a whole arm if you want to go above and beyond.”

As expected, his audience laughed. So far so good.

“Each champion will take one of the plaques they retrieved in the first task and will find themselves either in Istanbul, or Helsinki, or Cairo. Good luck trying to guess which key takes you where,” Sirius said teasingly, chuckling when there was more laughter from the amused audience. “Engraved into the plaque is the  _name_  of your target – that’s right, not numbers anymore! Track them down, take a strand of their hair and finish the Polyjuice Potion before drinking it. Once you’ve transformed into your target, simply touch the portkey – it will recognize the target’s fingerprint and will activate on its own. You will be brought here. But— that is not all!”

His audience, now more curious than ever, was silent. The Champions looked calmer than any of them ought to be, and Sirius hoped that Harry at least would know better than to underestimate what was waiting for him. “The champions have three days to complete this task. During these three days you will be completely on your own. We on this end will be able to see you only when you arrive. I repeat: you are on your own. You will not be monitored or followed.”

Ignoring the restless and confused expressions of the people around him, Sirius waved his wand again and the three bottles descended down with the plaques, and the wizard gestured for the Champions to step forward. “Pick a plaque and a bottle. Remember that this mission will demand more from you than the previous one did. Be fast, be efficient. The first one to return will be the winner of this round. Champions, it’s your time to shine!”

With yet another wave of his wand the Polyjuice bottles and the plaques floated downwards until they were well within reach of the three students. After a moment of hesitation, Delacour pocketed a bottle and curled her long fingers around one of the plaques before stepping back. Following her example, the two boys did the same before they all turned to Sirius.

“Your portkeys will activate in a matter of seconds,” the wizard said. “Good luck, and may the best win.”

Delacour gave him a bright smile in return, and even Weasley managed to muster up a grin of some sort. Harry, on the other hand, stared at Sirius with a blank face. His hand was clenched around the plaque, and the few seconds it took for the portkey to activate seemed to last an eternity.

 _‘I need to listen to him,’_  Sirius suddenly realized.  _‘I need to talk with Harry and listen to him. If I won’t, there’s no fixing this situation.’_

Once the champions had disappeared, the Death Eater raised his hands to indicate that there was still something left for him to say. He smiled again, looking at the people in the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen…. you may now wonder where the entertainment is. What on earth could be fun about a mission that we cannot watch? Well, we all know how self-conscious people can be when they  _know_  they’re being watched. The champions were told that they will not be monitored or followed –  _that was a lie_.”

Sirius didn’t bother to hide how smug he was feeling as he continued: “The broadcasting will start in thirty seconds and will continue without pause for three days. You may come and go as you please during that time, though students must remember to not stay here after curfew. There will be constant surveillance and security in the area. Ladies and gentlemen… enjoy the show!”

*

It was a wide street with a seemingly never-ending line of shops, restaurants, and hotels on both sides. The steady drizzle of rain didn’t seem to bother the crowds of people passing by or the street vendors selling the kinds of foods Harry had never seen before. The place reminded him of Diagon Alley in many ways, but there was something amiss – something that Harry couldn’t immediately pinpoint.

The language he could hear people speaking wasn’t even vaguely familiar, though that wasn’t what was making him feel so wary.

 _‘Standing still and overthinking things will be just a waste of time,’_ Harry decided, taking a deep breath and deciding to start walking. His brown Durmstrang uniform didn’t stand out as he stepped out of the shadowed alley he had been hiding in, and it was only when he thought of his own attire that he realized what had been bothering him so:  _no one was wearing robes_.

People wore trousers and shirts and skirts and even dresses, but it was odd that no one in such a large crowd was wearing robes. There were no pointy hats in sight, no owls flying above, and no matter how much he walked and how many stores he passed by he couldn’t see a single broom store or a Quidditch supplies store or even a Potions apothecary.

It was as if he was… surrounded by Muggles.

_(Something was wrong.)_

Could that be  _true_? Had Sirius sent him to complete his task in a Muggle-populated city? Harry’s mouth hung open with surprise as he turned to look at his surroundings with renewed interest. Where on earth was he, exactly? Which one of the three cities had he ended up in? The boy glanced at the plaque he was still holding tightly in his hand, and the name carved into it was Mario Orsini. Italian. Not Finnish, Egyptian or Turkish. Even his target couldn’t serve as a clue.

None of the destinations were anywhere near Italy. How was he supposed to look for someone with that name in this place anyway? He could be _anywhere_! Would a point-me spell work? Unlikely – Harry suspected that Sirius would have taken some measures to prevent the champions from locating their targets easily. Then again even if the spell wasn’t somehow blocked, he couldn’t use his wand around Muggles, could he?

Circe, he was getting a headache.

 _‘Is that a car?’_  Harry thought suddenly, his attention captured by what was, indeed, a yellow car making its way slowly through the crowd. The boy had seen a car only once before in his life, when the Ministry of Magic—

No,  _Merlin_ , this wasn’t the time to get distracted by cars. Ah, he needed to calm down and pull himself together, organize his thoughts and start thinking clearly. It was lucky that the audience wouldn’t be able to see him fumble like this. Knowing that he wasn’t being watched gave him a surprising kind of comfort and freedom, and Harry wondered if he could travel into the Muggle world in the summer.

_(Why did he feel like hiding?)_

_‘If I survive this,’_  Harry thought, shaking his head and walking slowly back to where he had first appeared, hoping to find a clue of any kind.  _‘Tom said he wanted a show… Now that I think about it, doesn’t his request contradict what Sirius said? If we’re not being observed, how can Tom enjoy the show? How can anyone be entertained if they can’t see us?’_

Feeling confused and irritated, Harry took another look at the name on the plaque before shoving it into his pocket. The fact that he was taken to this precise location must mean that Mario Orsini was somewhere nearby, right? Perhaps in a hotel? Was he one of the street vendors?

“This is ridiculous,” Harry muttered, his fingers itching to pull out his wand. Would using it in such a public place cause him to lose points with the judges? Then again – could they see him now or not? Sirius had said that they weren’t being watched, but Tom’s words had given the opposite impression.

It was then that Harry saw…  _him_. It. In the distance, a shadow taller than an average human but thinner than Harry himself and narrow enough to glide through the crowds without gaining as much as a single look from the people. Was this something muggles were used to?

_(Danger.)_

No. Harry had a feeling that this was something different. It walked on two feet, silent and steady in its gait. Somehow threatening.

Harry knew without a doubt that this was something he should get away from as fast as possible. Feeling a cold shiver up his spine, the boy ducked into one of the stores nearby and pretended to look at the books for sale. The sudden fear he was feeling was unreasonable and for that moment all thoughts of the tournament were gone from his mind.

The shadow passed slowly by the bookstore, and Harry couldn’t believe how no one else could see him. Or even  _feel_  him. That presence like a sinister curse waiting to latch onto someone. Harry turned and walked further into the bookstore, afraid of stepping back into the street. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain what made him think so, but leaving now wouldn’t be safe.

An old man behind the counter looked up at Harry and offered a kind smile. Harry smiled nervously in return, feeling very out of place. What if the thing followed him inside and—

“Merhaba,” the man said, before continuing with carefully pronounced and heavily accented English: “You not local? Need help?”

“Um, no,” Harry replied, unsure of what to say next and resisting the urge to look behind him. “I mean yeah, I’m not local. I’m… visiting. Well, looking for someone, actually.”

_(Don’t look.)_

“Looking for  _arkadash_?” the man wanted to know, though he didn’t sound particularly interested. In fact despite his kind smile and polite mannerism, he seemed to want Harry out of his store, as if he could see that the boy had no money to buy anything with. Harry doubted that his Galleons would be accepted here. “Friend?”

“A friend, yes. Well, something like that,” Harry said, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to not think of the shadow creature that had terrified him in such a way. As if he could just forget. “Mario Orsini.”

“Mario!” the old man suddenly exclaimed, before smiling and nodding. “Yes. Yes. Mario. Everyone knows Mario. Artist. Has a, eh,  _atölye_  very close.”

“Really?” Harry asked, stunned but relieved about the turn of events. Suspicious, too. Harry didn’t believe in luck and didn’t feel comfortable trusting it. “Could you point me to the right direction?”

“Of course,” the old man replied, walking around the counter and leading Harry back outside. The boy nervously followed, hating the mere thought of returning to the street. “You see shoe shop there? Blue walls? You go to street behind it and walk until you see Orsini. It is _very_ easy to recognize. Only building at the end of the road.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, smiling gratefully. “I’m… very thankful for your help. Your, uh, your English is really good.”

“You are welcome," the old man said with a chuckle, though his words left Harry feeling strangely chastised. "You English, yes? People here learn your language because you will not learn ours. Travel more, son. The world is bigger than your country. Learn more. Speak more. Every language is a doorway to a new world.”

_(Weren’t you told, Harry?)_

Orsini’s atelier was indeed easy to find.

It was a shabby two-story building with small windows and a door that looked like a kick could break it apart. Harry knocked on the door before he even thought of what he was supposed to do next and how he’d explain his visit. It was too late to worry about that now, however, as the door was pushed open and a man with an angry scowl on his face appeared, glowering at Harry.

“Are you Mario Orsini?” Harry asked quickly, curling his fingers around his wand and smiling politely. The man grimaced at him, before nodding curtly.

“What do you want?” he said, his voice more like a hiss than anything else. “I was not expecting guests.”

“I need… just a moment of your time,” Harry told him, his polite smile unwavering. “Inside, if possible. I assure you that this is a matter that cannot be discussed out in the public.” Orsini hesitated, before pushing the door open and gesturing for Harry to enter. The boy had barely taken a few steps in before the door was slammed shut.

“You wait here,” Orsini said sharply. “I must finish a phone call that you interrupted. Do not move and do not touch anything. You steal, I will find you and make you pay. Understand?”

“Yes,” Harry replied easily, not minding the wait. He wasn’t in a hurry after all, and it felt safer to stay in the dark and hidden atelier than outside. It was a wonder, though, why Sirius had thought that completing the task would take three days. Then again… did Sirius know of the creature that Harry had seen? Was it meant to hinder him somehow?

Harry really didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure how to explain it… he just…  _knew_.

_(The more aware you become of them…)_

The faint sound of a strangely unsteady melody came from upstairs, and Harry wondered absently if the man had put the music on to drown his conversation under the noise. Harry didn’t blame him, and simply did his best to hum along as he took a look at the paintings around him. They were all so silent and still, and Harry tried not to cringe as he wrapped his coat tighter around him.

It was then that he saw it: a small painting hanging on one of the stained walls. The man in the picture was nearly identical to the creature Harry had seen roaming the streets earlier: he was taller than any human Harry had ever seen. His ashen skin had a blue glow to it and his dark grey eyes looked far too alive to belong to a Muggle painting.

The fear Harry had somewhat left behind earlier, returned with vengeance. He didn’t think that this was part of Sirius’s task, no. This had nothing to do with the living, and everything to do with the dead. Merope would know. Albus would know.

 _‘Neither of them is here with me,’_ Harry thought, and jumped with a yelp when Orsini appeared next to him out of nowhere.

“Now,” the still scowling man said. “What do you want?”

“This painting,” Harry blurted out. “How do you— Tell me about this painting.”

The man regarded him with a look that was slightly less angry than his scowls before. “Would you buy it?”

“Maybe,” Harry lied, and continued stumbling and stuttering with words that didn’t know how to arrange themselves. “I just… I need to know. This person— No, not  _this_  person, but someone like him. I’ve seen— I just. Please. Why did you paint this?”

“I dream sometimes,” Orsini said, shuffling away from the painting and turning his back to Harry. His voice, however, remained loud in the room. “Of them. I dream of them sometimes. It used to be once or twice a year, but now it’s more. I don’t know how to stop.”

“Who are they?” Harry asked. “Do you know?”

“The Gone Tribe,” Orsini replied, his voice tired and echoing –  _calling_  – something that made Harry shiver with fear and anxiety. “Well, sometimes they’re called the Fading Tribe, but really… they’re already gone. They’ve already faded into nothing.”

_(…the more aware they become of you.)_


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a few spoilery warnings for y'all in the end notes, so read them if you want. No sexual assault of any kind, tho. Still hella depressing (to me at least).

“The Gone Tribe,” Orsini replied, his voice tired and echoing –  _ calling _ – something that made Harry shiver with fear and anxiety. “Well, sometimes they’re called the Fading Tribe, but really… they’re already gone. They’ve already faded into nothing.”

”But,” Harry said, ”how do you know of them?”

Orsini narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked at Harry with a sneer on his face. ”Isn’t that what I should be asking  _ you _ , young man? It is not often that people ask me of the Tribe. You seem far too unsurprised to have never heard of them.”

”I have heard of them,” Harry said, mind scrambling for a believable excuse. ”In a story. I read a lot of those.”

”Quite the story it must have been, then,” Orsini said dryly. ”Now, did you come here for this painting or for something else?”

Harry fell silent for a moment, and thought of his options. He had already deduced that there was no way that Sirius’s words regarding them not being under surveillance were true - the entertainment of the event was based on people watching them, and claiming otherwise would be a blatant lie. So whatever he would respond with, whatever he would  _ do _ , would have to be... something that impressed the audience. Mette had told him that people wanted a show, and if giving them a show was the only way he could get one over Delacour, then...

And... what  _ was _ that strange shuffling sound coming from somewhere nearby? Did his target have any guests here?

”I’d like to buy this painting,” Harry said. Orsini rolled his eyes and took a step back from him, in clear indication that his earlier question about Harry’s interest in buying the painting had been nothing but mockery.

”I doubt you’ve got enough liras on you,” the man said. ”And I don’t take dollars. Or pounds, if that’s what you’ve got.”

”What about labor, then,” Harry offered lightly, wondering if he should use a spell to convince the man. ”The place is quite messy, and I doubt it’s fun to organize it all on your own. I could help.”

”You could work here your entire life, and you still wouldn’t be able to afford the painting,” Orsini said. ”It’s not for curious little boys. Leave.”

_ ’What the hell do I do,’ _ Harry thought, doing his best to not show any signs of his rising panic. What would  _ Bellatrix _ do? ”I’m afraid I cannot do that,” Harry said finally. Orsini gave him a sharp look, and tensed. Once again Harry could hear a strange, shuffling sound, except this time it sounded even closer.

”I will throw you out  _ myself _ ,” Orsini threatened. ”You have no right to anything that is mine.”

”You could reconsider selling me the painting,” Harry said, keeping his tone friendly, ”and perhaps there will be no need for violence.” Because, really, violence was the  _ last _ thing Harry wanted. If he could somehow figure out a way to win the tournament without violence, he would. All he could hope now was for Orsini to buy his bluff and miraculously feel intimidated.

Miracles, however, weren’t forthcoming.

In response the man levelled him with a look so evil, it made something inside Harry flinch and reach for his wand. He felt bad for being so rude to Orsini, but he  _ really _ needed an excuse to stay long enough to somehow get a hair off the man without hurting him. He didn’t want to end up having to fight his target. Not to mention that he really did want the painting, if only to remind himself that the Gone Tribe was real, and they were out there, somewhere. Aware of him. He had  _ seen _ one.

”You can sit on that couch there all you want,” Orsini said, gesturing towards a couch that had its back to a staircase leading up. ”I’m not changing my mind. Let’s see for how long you can wait, eh?”

_ ’Should I attack him?’ _ Harry thought, and watched as Orsini turned away from him and walked upstairs. The man’s feigned lack of care was neither convincing nor relieving, and Harry found himself even more stressed and anxious than before. What was he up to? Should Harry just stun him and go?

It was well into the first day already - had Delacour finished her task yet? Had she been as efficient as before? Would she have kicked down the front door, hit Orsini with a cutting curse to the throat and been done with the task in fifteen minutes?

_ ’I’m not her,’ _ Harry thought _. ’And I can’t become her no matter how much Tom probably wants me to.’ _ He then turned back to the painting, and could swear that there was someone nearby breathing. The sound didn’t come from the painting itself, did it? No - it was clearly a muggle painting, no matter how well-made it was. Harry threw a glance at the staircase, and when he didn’t see Orsini there, he pressed his fingertip against the painting’s surface. Nothing happened.

_ ’It’s painted on fabric,’ _ Harry thought, running his hand gently over it.  _ ’Surprisingly thin fabric.’ _ A bit odd, wasn’t it? The painting had such sturdy frames, yet nothing to support it from the back.

Shooting another nervous look towards the staircase, Harry grabbed a hold of the frame, and lifted the painting off its hook. Behind it he saw nothing but a wall, and a small hole. Nothing special. The hole didn’t pierce through the wall, but rather...  _ into _ it. It seemed to be nothing but a result of someone accidentally punching the thin wall too hard, breaking the first layer and then not bothering to fix it. Harry peeked closer, and saw nothing but empty darkness inside. He wondered how deep the space between the walls was.

_ ’I have to put this back before Orsini comes down,’ _ he decided, and glanced down for a moment to readjust his grip. When he looked up again, what he saw punched the breath right out of him: staring at him through the hole in the wall was a pair of eyes.

A pair of bulging, bloodshot human eyes.

*

The first thing Fleur did was cast a warming charm on herself and silently curse the location she had been sent to.

She was standing in a relatively empty square, in front of a large, white church. There was a thick layer of snow on the ground, and cold gusts of wind made it hard to breathe at times, despite the warming charm. The people she could see were dressed in a fashion unfamiliar to her, and the statue that she could see was still, without so much as a twitch. It became clear very fast that she was in a muggle neighbourhood. Did that mean that her target was a muggle as well? 

_ ’Merlin, what a bore,’  _ Fleur thought. So far the previous task seemed to be tougher than this one, but perhaps that was for the best. A task being boring but easy was by far better than a tough task that would increase the risk of failure. Tricky but entertaining duels could wait for another day to happen _. ’Now, to locate my target.’ _

Her target’s name was Juho Tilli, and Fleur had no idea if that was a man or woman’s name. Not that it mattered, really - while the point-me spell wouldn’t work on finding the person, it wasn’t entirely useless. Predictably, whoever had cast anti-locator charms on the target hadn’t bothered to cover the target’s home as well. Fleur knew that even if they weren’t there right now, she could wait for them - she had time, after all.

It was clear that the game-designers had decided to err on the side of caution when it came to deciding the timing for the game.

The witch followed the directions of her wand, and after several minutes of walking in increasingly inconvenient weather, she had finally arrived to what looked like a small harbour, of all things. There were people about to board a ferry standing there, and following the tug of her wand, Fleur quietly joined them. A disillusionment charm kept her from being detected by anyone, and a part of her was relieved that the audience at Hogwarts wouldn’t be watching her - this was far too boring for anyone to be entertained by.

Soon enough Fleur arrived on an island, and from there it took her nearly half an hour of brisk walking to reach a house.

It wasn’t an impressive house, really. An ugly, yellow brick house in the middle of what looked like the ruins of an old brick building. No neighbours, and even the road was a fair distance away. Really, there was nothing worth mentioning; only that ugly house, with ruins to its sides, and the Baltic Sea behind it.

_ ’Who on earth would live here,’ _ the witch thought, before promptly unlocking the front door and stepping into the house.

In a vast contrast to its outward appearance, the house on the inside was... clearly designed with money not being an issue. The dark wooden floor was polished to perfection. The teal wallpaper with golden leaves mixing with white-painted wall panels reminded Fleur of one of her mother’s old houses in Lourmarin. In the front hall there was a spiraling staircase leading to the upper floor, and several beautifully decorated doors. Something, however, wasn’t quite right. There was a strange atmosphere in the house, and—

Fleur snapped her head up, looking at the top of the staircase, just in time to see a small face duck behind a wall. A strange, fast, uneven sound of thumping followed.

”Oh no, you don’t,” Fleur hissed, pulling out her wand and racing up the stairs. ”I saw you!” She reached the top of the stairs, and looked both directions down the long, dark hallway. No one was there, but whoever the child had been, they could have easily slipped into any of the rooms on the second floor. Fleur wasn’t about to go there without knowing the location of the one she was looking for.

_ ’Why is a child alone in this house, anyway,’  _ the witch thought.  _ ’Is it a child? What if this child is Juho Tilli?’ _

”All right then,” Fleur said, knowing exactly what she would have to do. She turned her back to the corridor and returned downstairs. After a moment of making sure that the child wasn’t following her, she stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her.

Unluckily for her target, Fleur didn’t like children. Fleur especially didn’t like muggle children. And unluckily for Potter and Weasley, they were competing against a witch who genuinely enjoyed learning strong, complicated magic, and just so happened to know that polyjuice didn’t need fresh ingredients. Bones picked off the remains of a dead body would be enough.

_ ’I know what people are saying,’ _ Fleur thought, walking around the house and drawing concealment and containment runes every few steps _. ’I’m not a witch in the eyes of many. Just a veela. Well, let me show them what a veela can do. Let me show them what a veela  _ **_witch_ ** _ can do against two pureblood wizards.’ _

As she drew the last two runes, invisible walls rose to surround the house. With a flick of her wand, she set the roof on fire, and stood back to watch the flames slowly eating away at the house.

It took less than half an hour for Fleur to hear the panicked scream from inside. Someone was clearly trying to escape, and the voice was indeed that of a child. It was crying, and not even the sound of those frightened, pained sobs could bring Fleur to move from where she was standing. It wasn’t until she heard a loud crash - most likely someone falling down the stairs, by the sound of it - that she cast a shield to surround herself and stepped back into the house.

The child was now lying on the floor, crying and crawling towards the doorway. It had burn marks all over its body, and most remarkably - it had no legs. It was simply pulling itself forward with its arms, compensating for the emptiness that came after its knees.

Fleur thought of her younger sister, and cast a cutting curse.

*

Horrified, Harry stumbled away from the wall and couldn’t hold back a frightened shriek. When he heard Orsini run down the stairs, Harry instinctively dropped the painting, pulled out his wand again, and ducked behind a couch - he didn’t know what the man’s reaction would be. 

Not a positive one, it turned out, when the first thing Orsini did was reach for a chair and throw it towards Harry in a fit of rage. It flew over the back of the couch that Harry was cowering behind, and hit the floor with a loud thud.

”What have you  _ done _ ?” the man all but howled. ”I told you not to touch anything!”

”What  _ is _ that?” Harry yelled, as he tried to crawl towards the door, doing his best to avoid the man who was getting angrier and angrier. ”In the wall! An eye!” Orsini didn’t seem to be in a mood for answers, and lunged at Harry with a wild look in his eyes, clawing at air as he tried to reach the boy. His heart hammering hard in his chest, Harry’s only desire was to get Orsini as far away from him as possible, and hopefully get some sort of an answer about the creature that was, even now, staring at them from behind the wall.

Staring, with a hungry look in its eyes, its long fingers pushing in and tugging at the jagged edges of the hole.

” _ Who _ is that?” Harry tried again, dodging a pair of scissors that Orsini had thrown at him. ”Just tell me - what the hell is going on? Merlin, this is—  _ protego _ !”

”I shouldn’t have let you get in,” Orsini raged. ”I learned from that, boy. Oh yes, I did. I won’t be letting you out, you can be sure of  _ that _ . I’ll stick you right in with him, I’ll—”

”Stick me ri— You trapped a  _ person _ in the wall?” Harry said disbelievingly. ” _ Why _ ?” What a horrible,  _ horrible _ thing to do to someone! Was it really a human? Why had— What in Merlin’s name was going on? He really should’ve just stunned the man and gone back to Hogwarts when he still had the chance.

”We can still part ways with no harm coming upon you,” Harry said loudly. ”Just give me the painting - or sell it to me. Or just tell me what you know of the... thing drawn on it? Anything--  _ Listen _ \-- No! Don’t throw that!” While speaking, Harry had tried to find a way to shift closer to the door. Unfortunately, in order to achieve that without getting too close to Orsini, the only way was to pass by the wall and the... eye. Orsini, in his rage, didn’t think twice before hurling what looked like a heavy statue made of stone at Harry, hitting the wall behind him.

The hole grew bigger, the eye disappeared for a moment, and a strange yowl came from its dark depths. Distracted by that, Harry didn’t notice Orsini heading towards him until he was far too close for Harry’s comfort. A silent thank you to Durmstrang’s curriculum running through his mind, Harry shifted his whole body to roll under a table and stand up with his wand in hand, leaving Orsini between him and the growing hole in the wall.

”I’m  _ so sorry _ ,” Harry said, and his fast  _ expelliarmus _ hit Orsini right in the chest, flinging him several feet back and right into the wall, breaking it even more. The hole now was big enough for the creature to crawl out, and Harry, not knowing how fast or aggressive it would be, quietly moved further and further away. He couldn’t leave yet, not without acquiring the missing ingredient for his polyjuice potion.

_ ’Merlin, that  _ **_is_ ** _ a person,’  _ Harry thought, horrified, as he watched the creature that pulled itself into the house through the hole. Its saggy skin was grey, greasy and sparse hair falling down in clumps onto his shoulders. Its eyes were strangely, frighteningly alert as it stood still and observed the room silently. Harry didn’t dare breathe, and neither did Orsini, it seemed. There was no telling what would be the thing’s - that  _ person’s _ \- next move.

It turned its head and stared at Harry for moment, before slowly crouching over Orsini’s now whimpering form. The silence lasted for a few more seconds, and there was nothing Harry could do but hold his wand tightly, ready to attack. It was strange, really, how he had been so hesitant about violence earlier, but now... now when the danger was so  _ real _ , Harry knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself, no matter how he’d have to do it.

It was then that he heard a strange, wet sound, right before Orsini let out an agonized scream. Harry took a deep breath and watched in horror as the puddle of blood on the floor grew and grew, just as the sound of loud chewing filled the room. There was nothing to guess about what the... person,  _ creature _ , was doing. The painting that had made Harry go through all this hassle was now soaked in Orsini’s blood.

_ ’Why,’ _ Harry thought. The Tournament didn’t even cross his mind at that point - not the tournament, not the audience, not even the Gone Tribe. All he could think of was watching the creature - the person? Which one was it? - eating Orsini alive, while the man tried in vain to flee from its hold. Before realizing it, Harry had raised his wand and aimed it at the...thing. There was only one spell he could think of and still somehow come out on top - not only survive this mess, but perhaps impress Tom as well. It would be fast and painless, and if Harry had to do this, he’d rather do it painlessly.

The green spell hit the creature on the back of its head, and silently - mid-movement - it slumped down. Harry could hear Orsini gasping for air and sobbing, somehow still alive, as he walked closer to his target. A moment later, another jet of green hit Orsini, silencing him forever.

And Harry... Harry was  _ done _ .

*

Sirius didn’t know what to think, or how to feel.

A part of him - a small, guilty part - was relieved that neither James nor Lily were there to watch this happen. Somehow he couldn’t imagine them being fine with what had just occurred.

He was glad, however, that he wasn’t a judge - he hadn’t been able to focus on Weasley and Delacour at all since the moment Harry stepped into his target’s house. The boy’s earlier behaviour - it was as if he was  _ hiding _ from something - had made Sirius curious, but that was forgotten soon in light of the events that followed.

It had seemed at first as if Harry would be both lucky  _ and _ unlucky: lucky in finding his target so fast - the audience was still present and attentive - and finishing his mission quickly, and unlucky in the lack of entertainment that would create. Things took a turn to unknown roads when instead of simply taking what he wanted from Orsini, Harry’s attention had been caught by a painting. The boy hadn’t been feigning interest in the painting - Sirius knew Harry well enough to know that he had been sincere, there was something that had caught Harry’s attention about it. But what was it? What had he spoken about, with the man? While the audience could watch the events unfolding, listening to what was being said was impossible this time around.

But oh, how Sirius wanted to know. Whatever it was, it had been enough to bring an expression to Harry’s face that Sirius didn’t even recognize: some strange mix of desperation, fear, and hope.

There was plenty that hadn’t made sense - Harry had clearly been focused on something that was personal to him, and  _ not _ as Durmstrang’s champion. It only made things more interesting for the curious audience, of course, and the reporters who would speculate for weeks to come.

Harry had had a bit of a slow start, but when the boy had finally decided to fight -  _ Merlin _ , Sirius hadn’t even known that little Harry could be so quick. The way he had rolled under that table, ready with a curse... that had Crouch’s signature all over it. But the way the boy actually  _ cast _ the curse... it was... it reminded Sirius a little bit of the Dark Lord, of all people. The way Harry held that wand, with an unusual grip that looked deceptively loose as he cast the killing curse...

_ The killing curse _ ! There was no way that learning the killing curse was a part of the Durmstrang curriculum for students who couldn’t even apparate yet! Where had Harry—? It wasn’t the kind of curse that people would just study independently, was it? Especially not people like Harry!

_ ’What on earth have you been up to,’  _ Sirius thought, surprised to find himself... not as happy as he thought he would be. Harry had performed brilliantly - even better than the first time around - but... the killing curse wasn’t easy business. It wasn’t the kind of spell children knew much about, let alone knew how to cast. There was... there was something wrong, and Sirius, for the first time, regretted having taken on the task of organizing the tournament. It would keep him busy over the holidays, and somehow he couldn’t help but feel that right now what he needed to do was spend more time with Harry. To figure things out.

Up in a booth with the other judges, Bellatrix was just about ready to burst with glee. The thought of having to endure a task that lasted for  _ four days _ hadn’t been pleasant at all. Much to her delight, however, the Potter boy didn’t disappoint in the least.

He was quick and efficient - and lucky - in locating his target. At first Bella had wondered why the boy didn’t simply kill the man on the spot, perhaps off a few stray muggles on the side by accident, but if Potter was the kind of boy who enjoyed toying with his targets a little bit, well... she couldn’t exactly frown upon that, now could she? Especially not when his target’s end had been so delightful, and the boy had used the killing curse to finish his business.

It was beautiful.

”He could’ve gotten to the point a little bit faster,” Araminta Meliflua said, though she didn’t sound disapproving. The old woman looked reluctantly impressed, and Bellatrix knew that while the older witch didn’t feel particularly fond of Potter, she liked the poor Weasley and the French veela even less. At least Potter was English and wealthy. ”And that killing curse - nicely done, but it’s clearly his first time casting it successfully. To be fair to the boy, however, he is quite young.”

”How can you tell?” Edmund Parkinson asked. ”His work seemed quite decent to me. I doubt it matters if it’s the boy’s first time casting the killing curse. He obviously did it successfully.”

”The translucency of the colour,” Araminta replied simply, before turning away from Parkinson. ”This is the champion you’ve been rooting for, Bellatrix? Who do you think would win in a duel, your nephew Anthony or Potter?”

”Po- Harry,” Bellatrix said, her eyes still fixed on the scene of Harry finishing the polyjuice potion. Soon he would come back, and in all likelihood he’d be whisked off to rest. Casting the killing curse - twice, no less! - for the first time was exhausting, and Bellatrix herself remembered having slept for two days straight after she had cast hers. When the boy would wake up, she would go and visit him. Or should she allow him to keep his secret a little while longer?

He might try to deny it, but Bella had been a Death Eater for a long, long time. She had fought side by side with the Dark Lord, and knew exactly how her master dueled. What she wanted to know, however, was how  _ Potter _ had picked up the Dark Lord’s stance and grip. It wasn’t a style that Crouch could’ve taught him. In fact, Bellatrix doubted that there was anyone who could teach that style at Durmstrang. Not to mention that the Dark Lord had nominated Potter for the Tournament.

Something was clearly going on.

_ ’Oh, little Potter,’ _ Bella thought, leaning back in her seat.  _ ’You’re so entertaining, I might end up wanting you all for myself.’ _

*

It took George quite a while to locate his target, and even then... he wasn’t sure where he’d find the person he was looking for.

The detector that George had built with Fred in preparation for this task was very precise, but took a long time to work. By the time he had narrowed down his target’s location to a moderately sized museum in some corner of the city of Cairo, it was already nightfall. George didn’t mind - he’d rather avoid crowds if possible. It was, however, surprising that his target would be at the museum that late. Could it be the janitor, or someone who had work to do overnight? If that was the case, then wasn’t  _ that _ a lucky break?

After waiting for a few hours past the closing time, George couldn’t see anyone exiting the building anymore, and the lights seemed to be all switched off. Carefully he made his way towards one of the windows, and unlocked it with a quick flick, pulling himself inside that way. He had no idea if muggles used alarm systems, but George took care to not touch any of the items in glass cases as he walked past them. The statues, however, were fair game.

Not that he wanted to touch any of  _ those _ . Creepy things, they were, towering over him in the dark rooms and hallways. 

He had never really considered museums scary before, but this one was a place George would be glad to leave as soon as possible. Merlin,  _ what _ was the fascination about collecting all these statues and then coming to stare at them? They didn’t even move!

_ ’Although, to be quite honest,’ _ George thought, stepping into a large room lined with even more statues and some ancient human remains _. ’I’m kind of glad that they aren’t moving.’ _

The atmosphere of that room was, however, very different from the other rooms that George had been to. Here, strangely enough, he felt as if he was being stared at. Not necessarily in a hostile way, just... It was highly uncomfortable, and this wasn’t the first time that he regretted ever entering the tournament. On one hand he wished he could rewind time and never participate, but on the other... there was a  _ lot _ of money involved here.

_ ’How can my target be here, though,’ _ George thought, trying to see if there was anyone hiding behind the statues.  _ ’I see no one, not even a janitor.’ _

It was purely by accident that he saw it - a pair of eyes gleaming in the dark, staring at him with a look of desperate hope from the other side of the room. Wary, George pulled out his wand, and slowly walked closer, ready to cast a blasting curse at the first sign of movement from his target.

”Stay still,” George said, ”if you cooperate, there will be no need for any violence, all right? All I want is—” Whatever he had wanted to say next remained unsaid, when he finally saw the face that the pair of eyes belonged to. Most of the face - and the rest of the body - was wrapped in cloth that looked like it had not only been dug out of dirt, but was old enough to gain a yellow tint to it. From what could be seen of the face, gaunt wasn’t accurate enough to describe it. The skin was tightly stretched over a skeletal face, and there were no muscles in the arms or legs. In fact... had it not been for the pair of eyes that undeniably belonged to a living human, George would’ve assumed that this was the remains of yet another historical figure.

_ ’How?’ _ he thought, feeling no small amount of disgust.  _ ’How had this been done to someone?’  _ Was his target trapped in this body or was something else going on? Didn’t Muggles - well, of course they didn’t see this. Any kind of magic could  _ easily _ mask the eyes.

George stood still in front of the... display? Mummy? Person? He tried to figure out what he could use for the polyjuice potion, and kept looking around in hopes of finding someone else -  _ anyone _ else, who could turn out to be his target instead. No such luck; the device he and Fred had created was very clear and left little room for error. Was the thing capable of moving? What if there was a curse, ready to be flung at him the moment he reached for it?

”Merlin,” George huffed, deciding with a grimace to cut a little bit of the visible cheekbone with the tip of his wand, avoiding direct contact with the mummy and the case it was being supported by. As he did, the eyes still staring at him in hope - hope for what? help? - widened in horror and panic. There were no sounds, and George wasn’t sure even how it was possible, but the thing’s eyes welled up in tears the more he cut off its cheek. Once done, he took a step back and uncorked the vial of polyjuice. As he waited for the ingredient to settle, he stared quietly at the mummy.

It  _ was _ a person. Someone, for whatever reason, had been trapped into this husk of a body, unable to live or die. And going by the look in their eyes, they had held hope that George would somehow put them out of their misery.

He... he couldn’t. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was an illusion created to mess with his head. Maybe there was no person at all. Maybe George was imagining it. There was  _ no way _ a real person had been subjected to an existence of torment, silence, and isolation like this. It had to be a set-up for the tournament, and that knowledge made it easier for George to turn away.

After all, this was just entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the murder of a disabled child, the murder of two men + cannibalism, leaving someone to die.
> 
> So I'm trying to get back to this fic, but will see how it goes.
> 
> Another note: I know some of y'all may have questions about the person in the wall. There will be more about that in the next chapter.


	37. Chapter 37

Harry stood still, in disbelief over what he had done, before reaching with shaking hands to where he had stashed the polyjuice flask. Did Sirius- had he  _ known _ about the-? Was it all planned? Was this  _ entertainment _ ?

_ ’Who am I kidding,’ _ Harry thought bitterly, remembering what he, Delacour, and George Weasley had gone through in the first task.  _ ’Of course this is just entertainment to them. Merlin. This world is crazy.’ _

His limbs felt heavy. He felt sick. He wanted nothing as much as to go back home, crawl into his own bed, and wake up to his mum calling him for breakfast. He wanted nothing,  _ nothing _ in the entire  _ world _ , as much as to make his way to the kitchen on a bright morning, for his dad to offer him a muffin and for his mum to snatch it away and make him eat something healthy instead.

But he wasn’t there. That time was long gone. His parents were dead, and he was the only one left.

Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm and rational, and took another step closer to the two bodies. It was only after a moment of silent inspection that he realized - whoever the person trapped between the walls had been, at some point in their life, they must have resembled Orsini quite a lot in appearance.

_ ’Similar features.’ _ Harry realized _. ’Close enough to be... siblings? Is he an Orsini too? What if he’s been my target all along?’ _ How on earth could he tell which one was  _ Mario _ Orsini? And if the man he had spoken to wasn’t Mario, then who was he? How did he know about the Gone Tribe? There were so many things that Harry wanted to know, but how on earth could he even begin his search for answers?

Well, there was at least one thing that he could do.

Harry kept a tight hold on his wand as he made his way around the artist’s house, in search for anything he could use to pour half the polyjuice into. There was no way for him to tell which one was the real Mario Orsini, and he was left with no other options but to try the polyjuice twice: once with each body.

The kitchen turned out to be upstairs, right next to a messy, unmade bed and a table almost covered in sketches and dirty dishes. With a grimace Harry picked a cup that looked less dirty than the others he could see, and cast several cleaning charms on it, just in case, before returning downstairs. He then carefully made his way back to the bodies, and hesitated before leaning closer to cut a strand of each one’s hair.

_ ’I hope it doesn’t wake up suddenly and eat my arm,’ _ Harry thought, eyeing the body of Orsini’s prisoner. It had a chunk of flesh from the man’s leg still in its mouth, blood still dripping in some places, and crusting in others.  _ ’Nothing can survive a killing curse, but Merlin... I wouldn’t put it past this thing to return from the dead.’ _

Moving towards the table while keeping his eyes on the bodies was a bit of a hassle, but soon enough Harry got to where he wanted to be. Carefully pouring half of the potion into the cup and adding the hairs into each portion was a bit of a challenge as well, as Harry couldn’t help but lose his focus easily: he kept thinking of the possibility of the wall creature’s dead body suddenly coming to life again, and crawling towards him at an inhumane speed.

It was terrifying, and he couldn’t calm down until he had set the drinks on the table and took a hold of his wand once again. Just in case.

After waiting for the newly added ingredients to settle for a few minutes, Harry drank the first batch, and grimaced, feeling slightly nauseated as his body changed. He held the portkey tightly, but it didn’t activate. It meant that whoever had been trapped in the wall, it  _ wasn’t _ Mario. Harry clenched his eyes shut and stood still, doing his best to ignore the terrible body he was in at that moment. Waiting for the effect of the polyjuice potion to wear off was an exercise in patience that seemed to last an eternity.

_ ’Merlin, I hate this task,’ _ the boy thought, fighting the feeling of nausea. The last thing he wanted to do right then was throw up -  _ could _ this body even throw up? The tasks so far had been both disgusting  _ and _ horrifying, and Harry was afraid of what the third one could be. Knowing Sirius, it would be something grand in all the ways that Harry hated. Should he ask Tom for details? Oh, no,  _ Tom _ . If the man was watching - and he surely would be - then what would he think of Harry’s actions?

Eventually Harry’s body shifted back to its original form, and the boy couldn’t help but hug himself tightly for a few long moments. He resisted the urge to take his shirt off to make sure that nothing of the creature had remained, and turned to where the rest of the potion was instead.

”Well,” Harry sighed, reaching for the flask. ”It better be you, then.”

Just as he tilted his head back to drink, Harry spied something strange from the corner of his eye. Something blue.

Anxiety flooded back into his body, and he couldn’t even taste the polyjuice potion when he realized what he was looking at: the same creature that he had seen on the street earlier. A creature that - there was no doubt of it - was of the Gone Tribe. It was huge, had to bend down to peer into the house, where Harry was standing, his body shifting into that of Mario Orsini.

He locked eyes with the creature, and felt... strange. Fearful, definitely, but not in the same way as he had been before. The feeling of something being horribly wrong washed over Harry’s body, and the feeling didn’t disappear even when the portkey finally activated, whisking him back to Hogwarts.

*

The moment his feet hit the ground at Hogwarts, Harry saw the towering hologram screens, and knew that he had been right. He felt disoriented and barely recognized Sirius when the man came to feed him a potion to neutralize the effects of polyjuice. There was so much noise around him, but Harry couldn’t focus on  _ anything _ long enough to listen. He felt dizzy with relief – he had  _ made it out _ . Safely.  _ Somehow _ .

”Drink it all up, Harry, there you go,” Sirius was saying, helping him remain on his feet. Merlin, he was exhausted.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Sirius said next, his magically enhanced voice reaching every member in the audience. ”The first champion to return is Harry Potter, from Durmstrang! Let’s give him the applause he deserves for such an amazing performance!”

_ ’I want to sleep,’  _ Harry thought, the tension of the day and the spellwork having drained him quite thoroughly. He tried to shake his head to clear his vision, which didn’t help at all - it did nothing for his tired eyes, and only made him feel even more nauseated. The audience was still clapping and screaming, and it felt like a lifetime before Sirius finally raised his hand to ask for silence.

”Now,” the man said, ”it is time to see what our esteemed judges thought of Mr. Potter’s performance! Did he do better this time around? Well, the judges certainly seem to think so! Harry Potter from Durmstrang scores a solid ten from Bellatrix, another ten from Edmund, and a... nine from Araminta - hard to please, isn’t she? A wonderful score for the youngest champion! Now let’s give him another round of applause before we send him off to the healers for a quick check-up!”

Much to Harry’s relief, an assistant of some kind - he didn’t know whose assistant, really - helped him to the hospital wing. He doubted that he would have been able to get there on his own, as with each step the exhaustion seemed to weigh heavier and heavier on him. He didn’t remember much of the check-up itself, and was only vaguely aware of somehow ending up being carried by Truls - whom he recognized by scent - back to their temporary dormitory.

After that, nothing.

Until he woke up, that is. Still disoriented, hungry, and unsure of the day or time. Harry spent several minutes in his bed, trying to get his thoughts in order, before sitting up to see if he was alone in the room. He was; all the beds were empty, and there wasn’t a single person in sight. He... he didn’t want to be alone. Before he went looking for the others, however, he  _ really _ needed a shower.

_ ’I wonder if they’re at dinner or something,’ _ Harry thought, slowly climbing out of bed.  _ ’Or - how much time passed? Hours? A whole day? Merlin, where’s my wand?’ _

After a moment of slightly panicked searching, Harry found his wand under his pillow, and cast a quick tempus charm. Whatever day it was, it was already evening, it turned out. Well - that didn’t matter. Even if the day after was a school day, Harry was done with the second task. He was one step closer to leaving the entire tournament behind him.

_ ’I wonder what the third task will be like,’  _ Harry thought, heading towards the bathroom with a change of clothes. Merlin, warm water was a  _ miracle _ . Showers were amazing _. ’I hope it’s easier to deal with than the first two. I need to practice dueling more, however. And... and I completely forgot about the dagger when I was at Orsini’s. I shouldn’t have forgotten about it, even if I wouldn’t have used it. Merlin... I have to remember it when the third task starts.’ _

When Harry eventually was done, he made his way to the common room, where he found Ingrid, Mette, and Maria. The girls looked up from the Daily Prophet copy that they had been reading together the moment Harry stepped out of the dorm room.

”Harry!” Mette said, sounding pleased. ”You’re finally awake! Are you hungry? Maria, go tell the Headmaster that Harry is awake, will you? Sit down, Harry, I’ll call a house-elf to bring you something to eat. I doubt going to dinner with everyone else right now is something you want to do.”

”Why?” Harry asked, sitting down. ”Food would be great, thanks. Um, is it Sunday?”

”It’s Monday,” Ingrid said. ”You missed a few classes, but obviously nobody is holding that against you. The Headmaster was  _ so _ pleased with your performance; I doubt he has stopped bragging since you came back.”

”Oh,” Harry said, feeling anxiety creep into him again. Merlin, he didn’t want to even  _ think _ about the task anymore! ”What happened after I was taken to the hospital wing?”

”Well, Delacour - she’s an ice cold woman, she is - arrived a little bit after you,” Ingrid said. ”The way she went about doing her bit took a lot less fighting that yours did, but I suppose she got extra points for, uh, how merciless she was? I don’t know. Either way, she received two nines and an eight, while you received two tens and a nine.”

”And George?”

”Weasley? His task wasn’t interesting at all, to be quite honest,” Mette said with a shrug, after dismissing the house-elf she had called. ”Some say it was very frightening, and they loved it the most, but to me - I like  _ action _ . So do the judges, apparently. Weasley got a solid eight. You’re leading! Congratulations!”

”Thanks,” Harry said tiredly. ”Say, where are Truls and the others?”

”Library, probably,” Mette said. ”At least some of the boys. Some might be socializing, I’m not sure.” It was then that Maria returned, accompanied by Headmaster Karkaroff and Professor Wiemar. Ingrid had been right, apparently - Karkaroff looked  _ extremely _ pleased, and looked almost friendly when he mustered up a smile.

”Mr. Potter,” he said. ”Good to see you awake! Excellent performance so far, in the tournament. I must say that I was quite surprised to see the level of your spellwork, but of course, it is only a credit to Durmstrang to showcase such skill. Well done!”

”Thank you, sir,” Harry said, his mouth dry and stomach in knots as he remembered casting the killing curse - twice, no less! In front of everyone! Tom would definitely use that as a leverage point to make him learn more Dark Arts, Harry just knew it. ”I, um, I owe it all to Durmstrang’s education.”

”Of course,” Karkaroff said, nodding. ”You came highly recommended, and I see why now. Despite the tournament, however, I ask you to not neglect your other studies. You’ve a little bit to catch up on, if I’m not mistaken. And tomorrow you’ll be up and about in class early, right?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Excellent!”

”I’d like to add one thing more, before we leave you to your late dinner,” Professor Wiemar said suddenly. ”Mr. Potter, there will be reporters trying to approach you asking for interviews. Remember to make sure that they have the authorization, and be  _ very _ careful in what you say.”

”Yes, sir,” Harry said again.  _ ’He didn’t even offer his help. I wouldn’t mind getting some advice.’ _

Then again, even if he  _ had _ offered his help, Harry wasn’t sure if he would’ve accepted it. The thought of going to an adult with his problems was... it felt undoable. Tom didn’t count and Merope was dead. Perhaps he ought to ask Sirius? Despite their disagreements, Harry really missed his godfather.

Maybe… maybe he could?

*

When Harry woke up early on Tuesday morning, he still felt exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with sleepiness. At breakfast Truls was looking at him with a worried expression, and kept trying to make Harry eat more.

”Those tasks are taking a heavy toll on you,” Truls said. ”You should take care of yourself better.”

”I agree,” Ingrid said. ”We can’t have you fainting or somehow lacking in school performance, Harry. Eat.”

”I  _ am _ eating,” Harry replied, feeling slightly annoyed _. ’I’d eat better if they weren’t harping at me about it all the time.’  _ ”Which class do we have first?”

”Your favourite,” Truls said with a grin. ”Transfigura— oh, wow, what a scowl. But at least McGonagall is a good teacher, right?”

”Right,” Harry sighed. ”And it’s not as if I  _ hate _ transfiguration, I just... it’s a struggle.”

”Hang in there,” Maria said, helping herself to a plateful of bacon that Harry knew Lestrange had been eyeing for a while now. ”The Christmas holiday is right around corner. All we’ve got to do is survive until then, and you’ll have some free time to relax.”

”I doubt there’ll be much time for relaxation,” Harry said. ”I mean, the third task is still ahead and I have no idea how much preparation that is going to need from me. Either way I can’t waste too much time resting.”

”But before we even get to that point,” Mette joined the discussion, ”we have the Yule Ball to look forward to! Harry, have you found a partner yet?”

”McGonagall’s classroom is pretty far away, isn’t it,” Harry said hastily, standing up. ”Best if we go now, Truls. We don’t want to be late.”

”I know what you’re doing,” Mette yelled after him. ”You can avoid this for only so long, Harry! Time’s running out!”

”You know,” Truls said as soon as they left the great hall, ”as much as I hate to agree with her, she  _ does _ have a point. You really haven’t found a date yet?”

”I haven’t been looking,” Harry admitted. ”Can we talk about this later?”

”All right,” Truls said. ”So, what are your plans for the holiday? Dueling practice?”

”Actually,” Harry started hesitantly, lowering his voice a little bit. ”I, Truls... remember when I spoke to you about the life debt? About being worried? I... well, I’ll be working on a solution to undo the life debt without you being affected by it, and, I just...”

”You’re still worried about that?” Truls said, shaking his head. ”I told you, nothing will change. I don’t mind even if the life debt remained. I don’t feel like it’s holding me back or affecting the way I act or think.”

”Still,” Harry said. ”I... I insist.”

”Well,” Truls sighed. ”If you  _ insist _ . Just give me a warning when you start doing... whatever it is that you’re trying to do. And please be careful. I don’t think that there’s a way for me to be harmed directly as a result of trying to sever the life debt, but you be very careful to keep yourself safe as well, all right? If it turns out to be too risky to remove the life debt, then just let it be. Honestly, I’m  _ fine _ . You’re too soft.”

”Not really,” Harry said. ”I’m not too soft. I... Truls, there’s something I want to ask for you to do. You can... have some time to think about it, if you wish.”

”Anything,” Truls replied. Harry looked at his friend, and hoped that he wouldn’t feel hurt by what Harry wanted to ask of him.

”I’ve told you... a lot of things that I’ve told no one else,” Harry started. ”I don’t know how the life debt will affect you, and I... I fear that you’ll grow completely indifferent to me.”

”Impossible,” Truls dismissed immediately. ”There’s no way--”

”There’s a  _ chance _ ,” Harry interrupted. ”No matter how small, there  _ is _ a chance of that happening. And Truls... I don’t want to  _ ever _ worry about whether or not you have revealed my secrets to someone else. I don’t want to  _ ever _ question or doubt you.”

”You won’t have to,” Truls said, but he wasn’t as dismissive with his tone as he had been earlier. ”But if there’s anything I can do to assure you, then please, don’t even hesitate to ask for it, Harry.”

Harry stopped, glad for the absence of other people in that corridor, and pulled Truls a step closer. He looked up at his best friend and laid both of his hands to rest on Truls’s shoulders, before sliding them gently to rest his palms so close to Truls’s throat that he could press his thumbs lightly against it.

”I need you to take a vow of secrecy,” Harry said quietly, his lips nearly touching Truls’s as he spoke. ”I need you to take a vow to never ever reveal my secrets to anyone else, no matter what.”

Truls didn’t move an inch. Instead he stared at Harry with an expression Harry had never seen on his friend’s face before. He then leaned down just enough to press a soft, warm kiss against Harry’s mouth, before straightening up again.

”You’re that sure that something is going to change?” he asked. Harry, his mouth still slightly open and feeling a strange  _ desire _ for something unknown building inside of him, swallowed and nodded. He didn’t dislike the feeling of heat at the pit of his stomach, even though he decided to ignore it.

”Yes.”

”In that case,” Truls continued. ”A favour for a favour. I’ll take the vow if you’ll be my date for the Yule Ball.”

*

The hours after dinner found Ingrid in the common room working on her academic portfolio. For a seventh year student the question of future employment was a matter of great importance, and there was no such thing as starting too early to polish up one’s merits for a job hunt. She had barely finished it when she heard someone entering the common room, and glanced up to see Harry and his friend, Truls.

_ ’I wonder if something happened,’ _ the girl thought, noticing the unusually good mood that Truls was in. The usually stoic boy whose resting bitch face was clearly a default that reflected his personality with great accuracy, was smirking smugly as he walked next to Harry. Ingrid huffed, deciding that his good mood was none of her business, and called out for Harry instead.

”Yes?” the boy asked, and hesitantly sat down when she pointed at the couch.

”Have you had any training in etiquette?” Ingrid asked, going directly to the heart of the matter that had bothered her earlier. ”You were told yesterday - and you  _ must _ have realized it yourself already - that you’ll be gaining a lot of public attention from now on. The first task already got some people interested in you. Now, with what happened during the second task, there will be even more of that.”

_ ’Etiquette?’ _ Harry thought with growing concern. ’I mean, I think I have decent manners?’

”I’m going to assume that the answer to my earlier question is no,” Ingrid said, looking at Harry’s clueless expression. ”Well then. Kettil, feel free to go, Potter and I will talk for a few more minutes. Potter, do you know how to dance? We might as well focus on the things that will be relevant for the Yule Ball.”

”I do,” Harry said, sighing when his friend left him behind. ”I’m all right. Good enough to not be embarrassing, I suppose.”

”That’s fine, then,” Ingrid said with a nod. ”What about dining etiquette? Or when you’re introduced to older people with more influence than you? Do you know how to greet people, and what to say to dismiss yourself politely from a conversation?”

”Uh...”

”Shaking hands? Referring to people? Dueling etiquette?”

”Well,” Harry said. ”I know about dueling.”

”Holy Medusa,” Ingrid muttered, and shook her head. ”We’ve got a lot to cover, then. I can give you a little bit of tutoring when it comes to those matters. Not now, however. It’s quite clear that whatever you and Kettil have been up to, is still distracting you, so you might as well go to him now.”

”What.” Harry’s face flushed red, and the expression on his face was suddenly that of wide-eyed panic. ”I don’t— um, I have  _ no idea _ —”

”Yeah, sure,” Ingrid interrupted with a lopsided smile, and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ”I honestly don’t care, and I doubt most other people do, either. Just... be careful. You can never be  _ too _ careful with certain matters.”

”No, it’s really nothing,” Harry insisted, still blushing as he stood up to leave. ”He just promised me something, that’s all.”

”Sure,” Ingrid said as she watched the boy leave. As soon as Harry had disappeared into the boys’ dorm room, Mette crawled out from under the table, startling the older girl rather badly.

”Something happened between those two,” Mette said, sitting down on the couch Harry had just vacated. ”I just know it.”

”What _ I _ want to know is what on earth were you doing under that table?” Ingrid asked. ”I didn’t even know you were there!”

”Oh, I was just eavesdropping,” Mette said dismissively. ”I was looking for a lost earring there when Harry turned up, and I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with him. Anyway, I wonder if Truls asked him to the Yule Ball or something. It was pretty obvious that that’s all the boy has been wanting to do ever since we were told about the ball.”

”Do  _ you _ have a date yet?” Ingrid asked, curious to know.

”Yes,” Mette replied with a smug smile. ”I got one fine catch! I’ve said this before and I’ll say it now again: all eyes will be on us!”

”Well, at least that will make it easier for Potter to not make any embarrassing mistakes during the ball.”

”If he’s lucky.”

”Knowing him by now, even if he conducts himself perfectly well, something will happen anyway,” Ingrid said. ”Merlin, the way that second task went from slightly creepy to absolutely terrifying... I don’t think that part was planned.”

”The guy in the wall?” Mette said. ”Who knows. Potter dealt with it very well, didn’t he? I’m sure he can deal with whatever else is thrown at him.”

”Let’s hope so,” Ingrid said in agreement. ”But at least it’s highly unlikely that he’ll wow us all again in the third task. I mean, is there anything that can top two killing curses in a row?”

”Nothing pops to mind,” Mette said. ”Good for him, I suppose. Less stress that way.”

*

Harry had expected that by Sunday he’d feel as if the second task had been nothing but a nightmare that he could discuss with his friends. That... didn’t turn out to be the case. Oh, he  _ did _ have some nightmares because of it, but that wasn’t the worst of it all. There was... what felt like permanent anxiety constantly bothering him, and no matter how much he tried to focus on other things - the Yule Ball, the life debt,  _ everything else _ \- he just couldn’t get back to feeling normal.

At times he’d suddenly, in the midst of doing something else, look up and ready himself to drop and roll to safety, forgetting that he wasn’t at Orsini’s house anymore. He had been feeling very twitchy and found it hard to concentrate on anything. The worst of it had been on Thursday, when he spent the entire day feeling strangely detached, as if he was a bystander just watching himself.

That Sunday he had woken up earlier than anyone else, and hadn’t been able to lie still in his bed in the dark for longer than fifteen minutes before he felt the need to get  _ out _ . He quietly got dressed and left to take a walk in hopes of that somehow changing his mood for the better.

It was too early for breakfast to be served, but the library was already open and Harry saw a few teachers - and even a couple of students - out and about. He had no reason to approach any of them, and continued to make his way through the corridors aimlessly, until he realized that somehow he had ended up near Sirius’s office.

_ ’I wonder if he’s here,’ _ Harry thought, before knocking slightly on the door. A moment later it swung open, and a disheveled Sirius was there, looking at him with a surprised expression.

”Harry!” the man said, a smile appearing on his tired face. ”Come in! Merlin, the office is a mess, but you know me by now, eh? Don’t mind the papers and the, uh, food containers. Just sit down. Anywhere. It’s good to see you! How are you?”

”I’m fine,” Harry said, sitting down on one of the couches in Sirius’s office. ”Did you  _ sleep _ here?”

”Oh, just took a nap, really,” Sirius replied. ”Meant to go home and sleep properly, but there’s so much for me to do that I just... didn’t. Are you fine, really? You’ve been through quite a lot, Harry.”

Harry looked down at his feet, wondering if he really could somehow try to make enough sense of his own thoughts and feelings to be able to share them with his godfather. ”I... I don’t know. Did... that man in the wall, did you know about him?”

”No,” Sirius replied with a grim expression on his face. ”The targets were actually donated to us, in a way. A few people volunteered their squib relatives. In Weasley’s case the relation was slightly more distant, since his target was an ancestor of a pureblood family who was punished for his condition with a curse. Harry... I wouldn’t voluntarily put you through the kind of ordeal that happened during the second task. You did  _ very _ well, and I am proud of you.”

”I don’t understand,” Harry said. ”How is what happened to me worse than what happened to our targets? I saw the footage - Delacour killed a  _ child _ , Sirius! A child with no legs! George’s target was bound and helpless and-- And you’re telling me they were  _ volunteered _ by their families?”

”It’s better to not focus too much on these issues, Harry,” Sirius said soothingly. ”I know that you’re under serious amounts of stress, especially after what happened with James. That’s why I... Harry, would you like to consider talking with a therapist.”

” _ What _ ?”

”It’s... it’s a step towards better health, you know, and nothing to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued gently. ”Someone who listens to you and is capable of providing you with any kind of help to make you feel better and—“

”It’s not that I don’t  _ want _ a therapist,” Harry cut in. ”But the thing is, Sirius, do you think you can find me a therapist who  _ doesn’t _ consider lack of magic to be a crime worthy of a death penalty? A therapist who can actually see this... this  _ entertainment _ for what it truly is? Because honestly, Sirius, I don’t think there’s anyone like that in this country. Not anymore.”

”All right, no therapist then,” Sirius said, doing his best to keep Harry calm. ”What would you like, instead? What would make you feel better?”

Harry fell silent for a moment, before he said: ”I just... I want to know that there’s someone for me to go to when I want support. Someone I don’t have to be careful around.” Someone who would hug him without making Harry feel like he was imposing or that he owed them for it.

”You know, Harry,” Sirius started. ”You can  _ always _ come to me. Even if you and I don’t agree on things, it doesn’t mean that I would ever hold your opinions against you.  _ Merlin _ , there’s  _ nothing _ you could do that would make me turn away from you.  _ Nothing _ that would make me side against you. Nobody, not even the Dark Lord, could make me bring you to any harm, Harry. Do you understand that?”

”I do,” Harry said, fighting the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. ”I just... I get so  _ confused _ sometimes, Siri.”

”And that’s perfectly fine,” Sirius assured him. ”But when confusion becomes something that hinders your life, when it makes you constantly  _ sad _ , then I want you to come to me, all right? We’ll talk it out together and see what we can do about whatever is bothering you.”

_ ’Would it really be that simple?’ _ Harry doubted that, though he nodded hesitantly. ”And you won’t tell anybody?”

”Not a soul,” Sirius promised. ”Your secrets are safe with me.”

_ ’Maybe I’ll tell him,’ _ Harry thought. _ ’When the tournament is over.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° ) harry thought his life was tough before. puberty isn't going to make it easier.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, June! <3

Harry was sitting alone near the lake, wearing his warmest clothes and staring into the watery depths in front of him. He had, thanks to Mette insisting that he _had to_ , just watched a recording of the second task yet again. He had been subjected to a few recordings already, but somehow… the more he saw, the worse he felt. Fleur’s cruelty and the silent agony George’s target was – even now, _still_ – trapped in. _Merlin_ …

The sound of approaching footsteps brought Harry out of his thoughts, and soon someone – a heavily perfumed someone with a lit cigarette in their hand – sat down next to him, right there on the snow.

“I almost didn’t see you here, Harry,” Rita Skeeter said, her voice saccharine sweet and words not quite warm enough to sound friendly. ”What are you doing all alone?”

”Just thinking,” Harry said, mustering up a nervous smile. He couldn’t help but remember Professor Wiemar’s words about being careful with what he said to the reporters. This particular one had already proven herself time and time again to be clever with her words and capable of influencing the public quite easily. Harry was _lucky_ that she seemed to like him, and he didn’t want to have her as an enemy. ”About, well, the tournament and such.”

”That was quite the show you gave us,” Skeeter said, and though she didn’t appear to be taking notes, Harry knew without a doubt that everything he said now was being written down somewhere, somehow. ”You’re the youngest Champion and despite that, you’re in the lead. Coming from Durmstrang, did you expect that?”

”You know, I have confidence in the education Durmstrang has given me,” Harry started, ”but, it’s still, well... as you said, both Weasley and Delacour are older and more experienced than I am. I didn’t really expect to get ahead, but I suppose it has a lot to do with luck also?”

”Well, luck is always a part of success, isn’t it? What do you think of your fellow champions?” Skeeter asked, her voice almost convincingly sympathetic. ”Have they been friendly towards you or do you they treat you like an equal?”

”Oh, we haven’t spent much time together,” Harry replied, ”but I knew the Weasleys beforehand. My parents were friends of the family.”

”Your parents would be _so_ proud of you today,” Skeeter said, and no matter how insincere her words were - it wasn’t as if she had _known_ James or Lily - Harry couldn’t help but feel a little bit better. Merlin, how he wished he could have them here with him and make them proud. ”What of Miss Delacour? She has gained quite the reputation so far, hasn’t she?”

”She’s immensely talented, and very strong,” Harry said honestly, deciding to not comment on how much of said reputation had been gained through Skeeter’s articles. ”I’m sure everyone will be even more impressed by her after the third task.”

”That’s a kind thing to say, Harry! Have you got any guesses on what the third task could be?” Skeeter asked then, and how on earth could she just... keep asking questions and not make it sound like an interrogation? ”You’ve been sent to far-away places twice already, do you think the third task will be like that too?”

”It’s hard to guess, really,” Harry said. ”Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be even more, uh, entertaining than the previous two tasks. I only hope to not disappoint.”

”Well, at least there’s something to look forward to before the task, right?” Skeeter then continued, her tone teasing. ”The Yule Ball! Now us journalists cannot attend, but I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun! Do you have a date for it yet? Is there a pretty lady that has caught your attention?”

 _’Circe, help,’_ Harry thought, sweating despite the cold with the effort to come up with a satisfying response. ”I think I’ll just go with a friend of mine. I’m... not particularly good at talking with girls.” Was that good enough? What if she asked him about Truls? Harry didn’t want his, well, _relationship_ with Truls to become news. Especially since he himself didn’t yet know what it _was_. They had kissed, but was kissing what Harry wanted to do with Truls?

”A handsome young man like you, you’ll be surrounded by girls in no time,” Skeeter said, smiling widely. ”If you win, you’ll be beating them off with a stick!”

”I don’t know about that,” Harry sighed. The thought of being surrounded by people in general - girls, boys, both - didn’t sound appealing in the least. ”I’m pretty boring, you know.”

”Girls like the strong, silent type,” Skeeter insisted, though her words were far from convincing. ”What about you? What kind of girls do you like?”

 _’I don’t like girls,’_ Harry thought, and somehow the thought being so clearly and simply put in his head, made something inside of him... _settle_. There was one less part of himself that he was uneasy with. ”I like driven people,” he finally answered, as honestly as he could. ”Rather than focus on looks, I think I’d prefer to date someone who has their goals and works hard, and is pretty... independent? I admire people like you and Bellatrix Lestrange, you know. You’ve got interests and careers. You’ve got personality and ambitions. I think it’s going to take a while before anyone I know gets to that point, and until then, I don’t think I can... find them interesting, in, you know, that way?”

 _Lies_. Well, not _necessarily_ lies. Harry didn’t want to _date_ anyone. But he _did_ feel attraction, and the thought of someone like Clemens sweeping him off his feet and just kissing him hard made his toes curl. The kiss with Truls had been nice too. In terms of personality, well... more than kiss, he wouldn’t mind spending more time with someone like Tom. Someone he could talk with.

Skeeter was silent for a few long moments, her cigarette between her lips as she stared at the lake. ”You know,” she finally said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ”It’s going to take quite a while until kids your age sort out which bridges to burn and which to cross and for which causes. If you wait until then you’ll miss out on a lot of growing, too. You’re young. You’re popular. Have your school day romances now and don’t take them too seriously.”

”I guess,” Harry said, unsure of what else to respond with. Skeeter sighed, and pulled herself up. The look on her face wasn’t as sweet as it had been earlier, and when she smiled at Harry, he felt wary more than anything else.

”Good luck,” Skeeter said. ”Look forward to my next article, Harry.”

And then she left, leaving behind her a worried teenager and a cloud of smoke.

*

It was two days after his chat with Skeeter that Harry had another meeting – this time with Hermione.

The Groundkeeper’s Hut had, much to Harry’s surprise, not only gained a few more security measures but also rugs, a few pillows and blankets, a new set of curtains and other small things that made the place much nicer. It was also cleaner than it had been before, and there was even a pot of tea on a small stove.

”I know a couple of house-elves,” Hermione said, tying her hair up into several small knots, and then smiling widely at Harry. On the table there were numerous books and parchments, and it was clear that the witch used the hut as a place to study in peace as well. ”They like me so... sometimes they help out.”

”Brilliant,” Harry said, deeply impressed. ”You’re _amazing_ , Hermione. This is great!”

”Oh, it’s nothing,” the girl said, before she gestured for Harry to sit down. ”How much time do you have before your friends start missing you?”

”An hour maybe,” Harry replied. ”Thankfully everyone is busy revising and doing homework. How are you?”

”I’m good,” Hermione said, sitting down as well. She was clearly nervous a bit, but didn’t seem anxious. Excited, maybe? ”I’ve been thinking about the things we’ve discussed so far. I believe that the most efficient way we can move forward with our mission is through organized advancement. This means that rather than recruit a lot of people right now, we could, say... recruit _one_ more person. Then we divide the focus areas. I’d take care of research and you will obviously be, well, the face of the operation. What we’re missing, however, is a strategy. Or a _strategist_.”

”Recruiting one of those will require some serious luck,” Harry said, thinking of his friends at Durmstrang. All of them were clever, but none of them seemed particularly gifted in strategy. Except Clemens, and despite the feelings Harry had for him, he knew that trusting Clemens with any of this information would be a huge mistake. ”What can we do meanwhile?”

”Learn how to obliviate people, is one thing,” Hermione said, torn between her academic desire to learn something new and the moral questions surrounding the need for such a spell. ”You mentioned that you know how to do it?”

”Actually,” Harry said, thinking of a potentially risky move that perhaps could be worth making. ”I’m not good enough for it, and honestly, I’ll be too busy preparing for the third task for me to practice it. _However_ I have a tutor - Gilderoy Lockhart - who might be able to teach you how to cast that spell.”

”Wait, _Lockhart_?” Hermione gasped, her eyes wide. She leaned forward, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement. ”You don’t mean--”

”Yeah, yes, him,” Harry sighed, wondering how had Gildy managed to remain so popular despite his, well, _everything_. ”I can ask him, and if you have time during the Christmas break...?”

”I have time,” Hermione replied immediately. ”I have plenty of time!”

”All right, that will be taken care of, then,” Harry said. ”What about the other idea you had? About small businesses and such?”

”Oh, _that_ , yes.” Hermione turned towards a pile of papers she had near her seat, and pulled out several files. ”Remember how we discussed ways to promote small businesses owned by muggleborns? Well, I’ve written down as many as I could remember, but it’s not much at all. Then I found a law office and really, you never know when you might need some legal help, so I added them too to the list.” The girl then took a deep breath, her dark skin flushed. She bit her lip for a few seconds, before she continued:

”Is this too much? I mean, I know I get _too_ enthusiastic about things, and maybe you didn’t want or need this much information, but I just— I like research, you see. And learning. And when I focus on something and enjoy what I’m doing, I end up, well, doing too much.”

”This is not too much, are you serious?” Harry asked, stunned and convinced that if there was love without romance, he was feeling it right now. Strongly. ”This is incredible! It’s beyond what I thought you could do! It’s certainly far better than anything _I_ could have done. _Merlin_... Hermione, you’re a prime example of what this world is losing because of, well...”

”People who don’t like my kind?” Hermione suggested quietly. ”I know. I think about it often,  you know? I can’t help but think about it whenever I do better than anyone else in class, and somehow it never gets... recognized.”

The two sit in melancholy silence for a few moments after that. The freezing wind outside rattled the windows, though inside the hut it was warm and comfortable. Harry wished that he could stay there rather than go back – which he’d need to do soon – but  didn’t want to risk anyone looking for him and finding their hiding place. There was, however, something else to do before he headed back to where his schoolmates were.

”I have one more thing that I need to tell you about,” Harry said after gathering his courage for a bit. ”It’s... well... someone recently told me that in order for me to excel as a wizard, I need to figure out my... branch of magic, so to say. Something that I can become the best at. Like how some people are amazing at potions, some at dueling… things like that.”

”That sounds logical, I suppose,” Hermione said, secretly relieved to have a new conversation to focus on, rather than think of the way some teachers treated her. ”You need to find your niche, is what you’re saying? Do you have any idea on what it could be? What are you interested in? Light magic? Healing spells?”

”I... well, I don’t really _have_ special talents,” Harry admitted, his heart beating fast and heavy in his chest. ”Except one. I can, uh, this is going to sound so weird and I don’t want to make this awkward, and I wouldn’t even tell you if we hadn’t agreed on keeping everything we discuss here a secret, but I can talk to dead people. Sometimes.”

Hermione stared at him for a few long moments in utter silence, before she settled further into her seat with a heavy sigh. ”All right,” she said calmly. ”Explain.”

*

On the last weekend before the Yule Ball, Harry was alone in the common room of the quarters reserved for him and the other Durmstrang students. He laid on the couch, perfectly content with attending the upcoming ball wearing his funeral robes - they were charmed to still fit him and were of very fine quality. Besides, black robes were quite popular in general, no one would be able to tell that he was wearing the same robes he wore for... well... his mother's...

Everyone else, to his knowledge, was either still looking for dates or out doing some last minute shopping. Truls, excited for reasons Harry didn't want to think much about, had decided to go to a tailor and see if his robes fit him well enough. Mette had decided to go with him, a dangerous spark in her eye. Harry didn't know _what_ she was up to, but was glad that he wasn't the one to have caught her attention this time.

 _'Björn would've loved it,'_ he thought suddenly, and smiled. Circe, while Truls was his best friend, he missed the others _so much_. He missed Filippa and Björn... and Clemens, too. Hogwarts was nice and all, but he wanted his own flat and the familiar halls and classrooms and dueling arenas and—

"Oh, great, you're here," a familiar voice said, and Harry sat up on the couch to see Sirius walking into the common room with a newspaper in his hand. He looked pleased, his dark hair pulled back, every bit the cocky godfather that Harry knew him as. "Is everybody else gone? How come?"

"Yule Ball is in a couple of days," Harry replied with a shrug. "What brings you here?"

"This," Sirius replied with a grin, and threw the newspaper at him. "I don't know how you managed this, but congratulations."

"What?" Harry muttered with a frown, unfolding the rolled paper only to see the front page title: KNOW YOUR CHAMPIONS: HAUGHTY OR HUMBLE? by Rita Skeeter.

"She's a nasty piece of work," Sirius said, throwing himself down onto one of the large, comfortable couches. "I don't know how you got her to like you, but it's bloody useful."

"I didn't know she was planning on publishing another article about us this soon," Harry said, reading through the article with no small amount of anxiety. As much as he enjoyed his godfather's company, he wasn't sure if he wanted it right then, especially if he came bearing potentially stressful news. "There wasn't... we didn't have an official interview after the second task."

_[Going above and beyond to bring you the most exclusive and exciting details of our three champions—]_

"What about an unofficial one?" Sirius asked. "Don't feel bad about it, you did well. Poor Delacour, however, Skeeter seems to really have it in for her."

"Does she, now," Harry muttered. "What do you think of Delacour, anyway? She's strong, isn't she?"

"Of course she's strong," Sirius replied. "She's one very talented witch. I can't wait to see what she'll do during the third task."

_[George Weasley, who used to be a prankster before the tournament, has perhaps undergone the most obvious change: from a healthy wizard to a grim, one-eared young man who might not even win the tournament he risked so much for...]_

_'What about me?'_ Harry thought, but only shrugged, not commenting on that part. "Any hints about the third task that you can give?"

"I wish," Sirius sighed. "But forget about it for now! There's the Yule Ball and a very relaxing break before the third task becomes something you need to worry about! Have you got a date for the ball yet?"

"I'm going with Truls," Harry replied. "He asked, I said yes."

_[...Fleur Delacour, who has been particularly popular among wizards, has showcased her foul, ruthless nature...]_

"Merlin, _really_?" Sirius sighed, clearly disappointed. "You do realize you don't have to go with your friend, right? Any girl at Hogwarts would love to go with you."

Harry opened his mouth, ready to tell his godfather that he wasn't going with Truls as just friend - it was a _date_. And that he wouldn't have wanted to go with a girl anyway, unless the girl was a friend, but somehow he just... couldn't. He couldn't say it. A horrible thought crept into his mind, a new worry over whether or not it was fine for him to like boys this way - he knew no one else but Gildy who did that, and Harry wasn't... he wasn't like Gildy.

_[...no softness in her femininity, the Veela was quick to put down her target. One can only speculate whether or not the euthanisation of her crippled 6-year-old sister two years ago has made her heart void of compassion...]_

Perhaps it was better to say that he _couldn't_ be like Gildy. Not with the life he was living, not with the things he'd need to do.

"I don't want to give anyone any wrong impressions," Harry finally said. "If I went with a girl, everyone would be calling her my girlfriend. I don't want that."

"When I was your age, a girlfriend was all I wanted," Sirius sighed, shaking his head. "How the times have changed!"

_[Though he comes from a notoriously accredited school, Durmstrang's Harry Potter - a native English wizard from a respected family - shows none of the cockiness one might have expected from the most successful champion so far…]_

"I guess," Harry said in response. "It's just... with journalists like Skeeter running around, I don't want to get into that kind of... thing. I'm fine the way I am right now."

"If you say so," Sirius sighed. "Just... don't hold back on anyone's account, all right? If you want a girlfriend, don't let being a celebrity stop you."

"I'm not a celebrity," Harry said. Sirius barked a laugh, and shook his head again.

"Oh, boy," he said. "After this tournament? You will be."

*

"Well, you look handsome," Maria said, as soon as she saw Harry dressed in his funeral robes. "A bit gloomy, though. You should have gone with green robes, I think."

"Oh, but look at this _quality_ ," Mette sighed, running her hand down Harry's arm. Her gown - pale grey and cinched around the waist, with some decorative structure made of rose gold on her hips - looked _amazing_. "Besides, black is a classic. He'll be fine as long as he knows how to dance. You _do_ know how to dance, don't you?"

"He's decent," Ingrid said, joining. "If someone leads him in a dance, he'll do just fine."

"Oh, in that case he’ll fine, he's going with Truls," Mette said, sounding satisfied. "I saw him earlier by the mirror, by the way, when I was saying hi to Viktor and Anthony. And Harry, your boy is _fine_."

"You still haven't told us who you're going with," Harry hastily said, not wanting to discuss his best friend's looks. "You haven't said _anything_. Not so much as a hint, really."

"Not Anthony, right?" Maria asked carefully. "I mean... Silvia Nott is here. You know how he is when she's around."

"Yes, thank you Maria, I know. No, it's not him. You'll find out soon enough who it is," Mette replied, her smile sharp and struggling to remain on her face. "We ought to go soon, right? The Champions and their partners are meant to meet up before the ball begins, and then enter together."

"Yeah, Professor Wiemar told me about that," Harry said. "I think we can all walk together towards the Great Hall, and Truls and I will just wait outside for the other Champions."

It was then that Truls entered the common room, dressed in dark blue robes that made his blue eyes seem even bluer. His blonde hair was combed back and he looked, well, _good_. Really good. Maria made sound that sounded a bit like she was struggling for air, and Harry couldn't help but feel... stressed, a bit. Thoughts of the kiss he had had with Truls, and thoughts of Clemens, flashed through his mind as he did his best to not think of how _tall_ Truls was and since when were his shoulders _that wide_ and _when_ did he even exercise to get his _arms_ like that for Circe’s sake and—

"Breathe, darling," Mette whispered, clearly barely containing her giggles. "You're staring. Not that he minds."

"We should go," Harry managed, trying to not dwell too much on what Mette just said. He _hadn’t_ been staring. Staring wasn’t his thing. "Are we going to wait for the others?"

"Let's not," Mette said cheerfully. "For all we know Anthony is still crying over Silvia not giving him the time of the day."

"He's a terror," Truls huffed, coming to stand next to Harry before slowly herding him towards the exit. "Nearly hexed Krum twice already. The insufferable idiot."

"He's got a broken heart," Mette said, following them, leaving Maria and Ingrid behind. "It's been _years_ and Silvia Nott still thinks he's not worth her time. Which, granted, she's right about." Harry remembered his brief encounter with Silvia Nott some time ago - the chubby witch with the dark hair and bright smile and sharp look in her eyes seemed far too nice for someone like Anthony Lestrange to appreciate.

"Mr. Potter," someone called, and Harry turned to see Professor McGonagall heading his way. "Mr. Kettil, Miss Erling, good to have the both of you here as well. Please follow me - we've reserved a small room for the Champions and their partners to stay at before we lead you to the Great Hall.

"Wait, why are _you_ going as well?" Truls asked, turning to Mette. The witch shrugged with a knowing smirk, and walked on Harry's other side to where McGonagall was leading them. Once they entered the room, they saw George Weasley standing with a girl Harry didn't know, and Fleur— standing alone.

"Darling," Mette said, letting go of Harry and heading towards the Veela. "You look gorgeous."

"So do you," Fleur replied, and Merlin, _this_ was something Harry had _not_ seen coming. Neither, it seems, had George who looked at Harry and Truls with raised eyebrows. Harry smiled nervously in return.

"Now that all three champions with their partners are here," McGonagall said, "I'll quickly brief you before we begin. You've already been informed of this, but you, as the champions and their partners, are expected to open the ball with the first dance. Journalists have not been allowed to attend, however I must remind you to still be _very_ careful with your behaviour. You will be under the spotlight and guests and other students will be watching your every move."

 _'Isn't that pleasant,'_ Harry thought, dreading the whole event already.

"Though the temptation to leave early might be great," McGonagall continued, "you must remain in the hall until at least eleven o'clock. Mingle, dance and enjoy the food. Any questions? No? Well then... follow me."

"I can't believe she went with a rival champion," Truls said quietly as they headed together towards the Great Hall. Harry knew he meant Mette, and while he was surprised by who her partner was, thinking of it that way hadn't crossed his mind. "No wonder she kept it a secret, I don't think Karkaroff would have allowed it if he'd known."

"Why not?" Harry asked, just as quietly.

"By going with a champion from another school, she's showing support to _her_ ," Truls replied with a grimace. "I don't like it."

When they entered the Great Hall, walking in pairs, Harry barely paid attention to the sounds of clapping. He had noticed, immediately, the people occupying the seven seats on the platform at the far end of the hall: three judges on the left, three principals on the right, and in the middle, with two masked Death Eaters standing behind him, sat the Dark Lord.

"Holy shit," Truls whispered. "He's here."

 _'He really is here,'_ Harry thought with mixed feelings, before he turned his head to take in the sight of the decorated Great Hall. He absently allowed Truls to pull him into a dance when the music started, while wondering what kind of magic had gone into creating the sparkling silver frost covering the walls, the starry ceiling and the floor that appeared to be frozen over, but wasn't slippery. The House tables were nowhere to be seen; instead there were numerous smaller tables, with students and guests crowding around them. Much to Harry's relief, however, most of the people weren't actually looking at _him_ ; Mette and Fleur were in the spotlight, and all eyes were on them. Perhaps this way no one would actually notice the blush he couldn't get rid of for the first half an hour of dancing so close to Truls.

After the second dance, however, someone stepped in right before the music for the third dance would begin. Bellatrix Lestrange, smiling with deceptive charm, had decided to not wait any longer. "If you don't mind, gentlemen," she said, "I'm sure Harry here wouldn't deny me a quick dance, am I right?"

"O-of course, ma'am," Harry said, casting a wild-eyed look at Truls, whose face revealed none of what he could’ve been thinking. The Swedish wizard took a step back, allowing Bellatrix to take his place.

"You needn't lead, I can do that," Bellatrix said just as the music began again. Within a few short moments, they were drifting away from Truls, Harry doing his best to dance with the most feared witch he knew. "I'm quite sure I didn't interrupt an important conversation, you seemed to be too smitten to manage a word, dear."

"I'm, uh, I'm not _smitten_ ," Harry protested. He really wasn't. He just... had suddenly come to realize that his best friend was really, _really_ attractive. Because somehow, he didn't know _how_ , admitting to himself that he liked boys rather than girls had made him more prone to actually _feeling_ things. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, dear," Bellatrix said, her smile anything but kind and gentle. "You've been doing quite well in the tournament so far. Did you receive training for it?"

"Well, not for the tournament specifically," Harry replied hesitantly. "Just... in general."

"You seem to be in good graces right now, little Harry," Bellatrix whispered, glancing at someone over Harry's shoulders. Someone who was sitting at the end of the hall, and Harry knew that only one man aside from her husband could get that much attention from her. "You know, when I heard that the Dark Lord nominated you, I didn't suspect much beyond a coincidence. After all it is not _that much_ a shock for him to nominate someone from Durmstrang's golden generation. But that is not all there is to it, am I right?"

Harry's heart was beating fast and hard, and his palms were getting sweaty. He took a deep breath and said: "I know better than to deny anything you clearly know already, but what... what led you to that conclusion?"

"Smart boy," the witch murmured. "I've fought by the Dark Lord's side for years. The way he holds his wand in a duel, the way he casts his spells, the movement of his feet, his posture... it's a combination that is uniquely _his_ , and very few are capable and self-aware enough to have such control over their bodies during a duel. Dedicated training from adolescence at least is required to allow the body to gain specific muscle memories. For a young wizard training hard every day with someone who's a master at dueling that way - _the Dark Lord himself_ , for example - it wouldn't be an impossibility to learn it. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes," Harry breathed in response. Strangely enough, however, the fear was washed away by a sudden bout of clarity; he wasn't shaking or sweating, his thoughts were clear and his voice was steady as he continued: "And if I'm right in what I think you've figured out, then please... don't ask. I can't tell you without his permission. Nobody else knows, you see."

"Not even your godfather?" Bellatrix asked, narrowing her eyes. "No one?"

"Not even Sirius," Harry replied. "Not even my dad, back when he was alive."

At this, Harry saw an expression on her face that he doubted anyone had ever seen before: pity. Bellatrix Lestrange had shot him a look of _pity_ , before she said: "He is the greatest wizard to ever live."

"I know."

"Do not take his grace lightly, little Harry. His favour is a glorious, but a heavy, burden to carry. I've walked through fire and burnt to a husk before he built me up again. It is not easy. The Dark Lord is a leader magic itself honours, and one should take his favour with grave seriousness."

"He's more than that, I think," Harry whispered, barely daring to speak. He thought of Voldemort, of _Tom_. Of the moments he had shared with the wizard, the frustration he had felt every time the man had disappointed him, and the comfort he had received. Tom was someone Harry cherished, and he wanted to keep the older wizard safe regardless of the mission that he had received from Merope. "He's... he's more than a Dark Lord. I'd walk through fire for him, I'd walk through _worse_. I think... it's because of who he _is_. Not just his magic, I don't _care_ about whether or not magic honours him - _I_ honour him. If he told me to lie down and die, then come back to life again, I would do it." In fact, he _had_ done it. Bellatrix didn't need to know the details of it, however, or of the conversation preluding that request.

The witch stopped, and stared at Harry with a peculiar, wide-eyed expression. She then touched his cheek with a lightly shaking hand and said: "Fall in love with a simple boy, Harry. I can see your other option and I wouldn't wish that upon you."

"Oh, I'm not in love with anybody," Harry replied, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. From the corner of his eye he could see Truls heading towards them, and wondered if this was all Bellatrix had really wanted to tell him. "And I don't plan on, well I mean, I don't have _time_ to fall in love yet."

"You're telling me there's no one but Sirius to spend your Christmas with?" Bellatrix asked, shaking her head. "No one you'd want there?"

"I'm not spending with Sirius, actually," Harry revealed. "I'm going with... well, I have training to do."

Bellatrix looked at him silently for a few more moments, before she sighed deeply. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Harry," she said just as Truls came to a halt right next to them. "I'm sure you and your date would like to spend some more time dancing."

"Thank you for the dance," Harry hastily said. Somehow this encounter had left him with a bad feeling at the pit of his stomach, and Harry wasn't sure what to do about it.

*

"And you're _sure_ that you'd rather spend the break at your friend's house?" Sirius asked, watching Harry pack a few essentials into a small bag. "Christmas is already tomorrow, you know. There'll be another feast."

"I'll pass," Harry replied, trying to sound as gentle as possible. "I know you'll be busy with the third task preparations, and Truls already had to leave in the morning, so I'd end up spending too much time alone after the celebrations are over. It's better in the long run if I go. Besides... with the number of journalists running around..."

"Oh, come _on_ ," Sirius said teasingly. "You've got Skeeter in your pocket, what else could you want?"

"I don't want to bother with journalists for a while," Harry replied, still not quite sure where he stood with Skeeter. "I just want to... relax and take it easy a bit." Because _that_ was what would be happening.

"Fair enough," Sirius sighed, before smiling fondly at Harry. "You've been doing well so far, kid. I'm proud of you. You even survived a dance with Bella yesterday!"

"The scariest moments in my life," Harry said, shaking his head and thinking fast to come up with anything that would prevent Sirius from asking further questions about his dance with the witch. "Truls told me it was barely two minutes, but it felt like an _eternity_. I don't even remember a word of what she said."

"She has that effect on people," Sirius laughed. "Do you need me to take you anywhere, or will your friend pick you up from here?"

"I have a portkey," Harry replied, finishing his packing and reaching for his coat. "I'm set. I'll see you when I get back, all right?"

"Sure," Sirius replied. When he left, Harry took a deep breath and tapped the portkey lightly with his finger. Tom had told him that he could use it to exit Hogwarts from the inside, not needing to go all the way outside for it to work.

 _'That nerd,'_ Harry thought fondly _. 'I bet he enjoyed working on how to get past the wards without making them react.'_ He then took a deep breath, held on to his bag tightly, and activated the portkey. And _Merlin_ , did he hate using portkeys. The spinning, the unpleasant feeling of being pulled through space to a far-away location – Harry _really_ hated using portkeys. When he hit the ground at his destination, it took him a few moments to even _try_ getting up and on his feet again.

When he did, he found Tom looking at him with an unimpressed face.

"I considered teaching you something you can strike your enemies with," the Dark Lord said dryly. "But I changed my mind. Before anything else, I'll teach you how to apparate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended watching: Auschwitz: The nazis and the final solution  
> It really shows how "ordinary people" can commit atrocities without thinking of them as such.


	39. Chapter 39

”I’d say not bad,” Tom said, peering down at a sweaty, exhausted, and slightly nauseated Harry. ”But considering the state you’re in, and the amount of times you’ve tried this, I’m just...  _ well _ .”

”Shut...up...,” Harry managed to say, words losing their bite as he tried to regain his breath. He knew he’d have to get up soon if he wished to avoid catching a cold. ”I’ve been practicing this for a  _ week _ already, and I’m still not good at it.”

”Don’t take it to heart. Most people usually spend weeks, not days, trying to figure it out.”

”I  _ hate _ apparating.”

”It’s the fastest way to get anywhere,” Tom pointed out, shaking his head. Unlike Harry, he was perfectly fine with the cold, snowy weather. ”Most people stay upright after they apparate, however.”

” _ How _ ?” Harry snapped, pushing himself to sit up. Ah, Merlin, he still felt a bit dizzy. ”It’s like being forced through a... a really tight... tube!”

”It will be fine,” Tom said dismissively. ”You’ve got the hang of actually doing it. It’ll become easier for you the more you practice it. Therefore, we’ll move on to other things you need to learn, and leave only an hour of apparition practice for you to do every morning.”

”You should have been a teacher,” Harry huffed, finally standing up and brushing the snow off his clothes as well as he could. ”Or a private tutor. Merlin, you’re  _ enjoying _ this, aren’t you?”

”Enjoy seeing you suffering? Circe, no.”

” _ Lies _ .”

Tom smiled, fleetingly, and something about that smile made Harry feel better about himself. ”Your performance when dueling that man and his creature in Istanbul was good, but it could have been better. Your reflexes are fast and your spellwork is excellent. However, as admirable as it is of you to use the Killing Curse at such a young age – twice in a row, even – mastering one strong spell will not be enough for you to survive in the long run.”

”Yeah, but we have something else I’d like to do first,” Harry said, trying to walk towards the house - well, the  _ mansion _ , because apparently anything less than twelve rooms for a single person wasn’t good enough for a Dark Lord - Tom had taken them to.  _ Merlin _ , he could barely feel his legs. ”Help me inside.”

”I think I’d rather see you try on your own, first,” Tom replied, and with a frustrated groan, Harry began making his way indoors on his own. Tom followed, still amused, and said after closing the front door behind them: ”You said there’s something else you’d like to prioritize above spellwork?”

”The life debt,” Harry clarified, sinking into the first chair he could reach with a relieved sigh. ”I think that needs to be removed before I can focus on anything else.”

”Indeed,” Tom murmured, shrugging his coat off and flicking his wand at Harry’s shoes, making them unlace themselves and head to their place by the door. ”I’ll start preparing for it, rest assured. And once that is done, I trust that you’ll be able to, once more, access the other side more freely?”

”Yes,” Harry replied, thinking of the train station, and Albus and Merope. ”Is there anything specific— I mean, you’ve been quite occupied for the past week. Is there a threat of some sort in the horizon?” The question slipped out naturally, and Harry didn’t stop to consider that it wasn’t actually a question he should have had the authority to ask. Luckily, Tom didn’t seem to mind.

”A threat... yes, I do think so,” he said, and gestured for Harry to move to the sitting room. The boy instantly headed towards the soft rug in front of the lit fireplace, and lay down with a happy sigh. ”I have spoken to you of Regulus Black.”

”Briefly, yes,” Harry said, and briefly contemplated sitting up when a house-elf popped in to set two cups of tea on the table. He dismissed the idea, however, as he had  _ just _ found a comfortable position. ”I thought you said he might be dead?”

”There’s a larger probability of him being very much alive and active, unfortunately,” Tom said. ”I have tried to track him down and erase him, but with no luck. He... he is a rather notorious Rebel, and one of the finest strategists I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

Harry fell silent for a few long moments, before he hesitantly asked: ”Is it... I mean, am I in the way? I can go back home if I’m holding you back from something important.”

”Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom sneered, and flung a stinging hex at the boy, making him yelp. ”If you were in the way, I would have sent you back already. No, you stay here and I’ll keep training you. And do remember that I’m not doing this out of my good will - we have a deal.”

”True,” Harry said, feeling a bit better again. He finally pushed himself upright, and reached for one of the cups. The tea was still steaming hot. ”After undoing the life debt, what kind of spells will you teach me? Shields? Healing spells?”

”Merlin, no,” Tom replied, bored by the mere suggestion. ”It seems that everyone who has ended up tutoring you has taught you more and more shields and healing spells. You’re fine on that front. What you are lacking, however, is variety in your offensive spells. And no,  _ Expelliarmus _ doesn’t count.”

”I didn’t think I’d need more than that and the killing curse.”

”Which, if you recall, I had to coerce you to learn.”

”Yes, yes, thank you.”

”I doubt your soft heart can handle the Cruciatus,” Tom said, ”but the Imperius Curse is something you ought to learn. Perhaps you should be taught how to overcome it, first.”

”That’s possible?” Harry asked, curious. ”I thought people couldn’t just shrug off that curse.”

”No, it’s not a curse people can just  _ shrug off _ ,” Tom replied, with a roll of his eyes. ”Which is why you need to be trained to do so. Even then, it might be impossible for you. Not everyone can do it, but I suspect that your abilities and... well, the way your brain works. I suspect those may help you.”

”Let’s hope so.”

”But before that, we have the life debt.”

*

The late afternoon of the following day found Harry, once again sitting by the fireplace, reading through the theory behind the ritual that Tom said he’d be using to undo the life debt. By his side there was a plateful of pastries so fancy that he couldn’t even name, but apparently had been a gift from the Malfoys to the Dark Lord.

_ ’What they don’t know won’t upset them,’ _ Harry thought, trying not to feel too guilty for indulging. To be fair, Tom had said that he had found the pastries to be too sweet for him, and Harry reasoned that without him, the pastries would go bad.  _ ’I’ll be really nice to Draco after the break,’  _ Harry decided.  _ ’I’ll... go look for him and say hi, or something.’ _

”Here you are,” Tom said, walking into the room. He had clearly just come from outside, and there was an annoyed expression on his face. ”Still reading the ritual notes?”

”Yes,” Harry replied, and squinted at him with a suspicious look on his face. ”Is everything all right?”

”Yes,” Tom said, and dropped several papers and what looked like maps onto the table by one of the couches. ”Except,  _ well _ . Considering your special circumstances, I can keep you updated on some issues. However, I trust that it needn’t be further clarified that none of the things I tell you are allowed to be shared with anyone else. If so much as a  _ whisper _ gets back to me—”

”Of course,” Harry said instantly. How could he explain his access to sensitive information, anyway, without making himself look suspicious? Besides, most of the things Tom told him were of no importance to anyone else in Harry’s life, really.

”Seven large Rebel camps have been identified in Europe,” Tom began, walking slowly across the room. Some strands of his usually neat hair were standing at odd angles, but Harry didn’t see it fit to mention them. The moment just didn’t feel right, even if he looked rather silly. ”In addition, twenty-four smaller camps have also been realized, resulting in a total of thirty-one camps that we know of. I have no doubt that there are even more hidden somewhere.”

”So you’re aware of there being at least thirty-one camps in Europe,” Harry repeated, ”but what about their  _ locations _ ? Have they been found?”

”The exact locations of only five have been confirmed so far,” Tom replied. ”But even  _ that _ is unreliable information, as the camps can move or split into fragments at any moment. And there are no ways to trace their movements, really. They have no behavioural patterns outside of the battlefield, and even there it’s a matter of not using certain spells - such as the Killing Curse.”

_ ’No behavioural patterns?’ _ Harry thought with a frown. Were there  _ any _ differences between the way Death Eaters and Rebels behaved? He didn’t know any rebels, so it was hard to think of anything. Except, well, he doubted that they referred to Tom as the Dark Lord. In all likelihood they just referred to him as Voldemort. ”It’s a pity you can’t attach a tracing spell of some sort to spoken words,” Harry said. ”I mean, they refer to you as Voldemort, don’t they? Imagine if you could locate every person who said that name.” Harry shook his head, and tried to refocus on the papers in front of him when he realized that Tom had suddenly frozen in his tracks, staring at Harry in disbelief.

”I know, it sounds stupid,” Harry said, feeling defensive. ”I’ve never heard of anything like it, to be honest. I just thought it, I don’t know, makes things easier. I’m sure you’ve already tried everything.”

”Of course,” Tom said, sitting down slowly. He was still staring at Harry, before he suddenly shook his head and looked down at the map on the table. ”Designating a word as a key to reveal someone’s location... what a... crazy idea. Absolutely ridiculous.”

”I know,” Harry said, feeling slightly embarrassed. ”No need to repeat it.”

”You do not refer to me as Voldemort, do you?” Tom suddenly asked. Harry shook his head.

”No.”

”Good, good. The Dark Lord sounds far better anyway, doesn’t it?”

”Well,” Harry started hesitantly, but decided to remain quiet after all.

”I’ll see what I can do,” Tom murmured then, not clarifying his thoughts to Harry, but appearing less annoyed. ”Well, do you have any questions about the ritual so far?”

”You said you modified it a bit from these notes, didn’t you?” Harry asked instantly. ”How much?”

”Not much at all,” Tom lied. ”As you can see, the version you’re reading requires a lot of preparation. I’ve simply found out ways to shorten the preparation time, and we can therefore begin in a couple of days. On Christmas, coincidentally.” 

”Before or after opening the gifts?” Harry asked, feeling both nervous and excited.

”Before,” Tom said. ”Due to security reasons, all of your gifts will be checked for spells first. You’ll receive them a few days after Christmas.”

”All right.” So he could simply focus on the ritual, for now. Finally, the life debt would be dissolved, and he could go back to the train station again. ”I wonder if Truls will feel it... or if it will change him. I mean, Björn - that’s a friend of mine from Durmstrang - once said that life-debts can amplify certain feelings. What if Truls won’t be my friend anymore?”

”Then you will just have to let him go, I suppose,” Tom said, uninterested in the existence of Harry’s best friend. ”Surely you can find other people to spend time with.”

”You know,” Harry suddenly said, sounding contemplative. ”You’re the person I spend most of my time with, really. Aside from classmates during lectures, I mean. Voluntarily spending time with you.”

”I’m a good choice,” Tom told him. ”Excellent, in fact. Is there better company that you could come up with? I think not!”

Harry shrugged, a small smile appearing on his face. In all honesty, well... ”I guess not.”

*

The thing about Bella’s sitting room was perhaps that it didn’t appear to suit her at all.

Sirius wasn’t sure how a woman such as her had decided that including every colour imaginable in one room was a good idea - Bellatrix had always given him the impression of preferring dark colours and tasteful designs. The sitting room however, was nothing like that. The carpets on the floor were red, white, and a dull shade of green, one of the couches was blue, the other two red, the round table was covered in a white tablecloth and a large flower arrangement rested on it. There was a statue of a cat dressed in a suit standing by the flowers. Near the doorway there was another statue of a large horse with golden hair and bejeweled reins, surrounded by plants. The windows, spelled to let sun in constantly regardless of the weather outside, were made of glass as colourful as the room itself.

”Sit down,” Bellatrix said, gesturing toward one of the couches. ”You do this every time. Stop acting like you’ve never been in this room.”

”It’s just... so warm and colourful,” Sirius muttered, but did move to take a seat. ”Tea?”

”Already served, if you could stop eyeing that horse and look at what’s on the table.”

”Oh, you have scones, too! You’re spoiling me, dear cousin.”

”Don’t get too happy about it,” Bellatrix said. ”I asked you here to discuss a matter important to us both.”

”Oh?”

”Your godson Harry, that is.”

”Your interest in Harry remains a mystery to me,” Sirius said, instantly wary. ”Why are you so concerned about him?”

”Why  _ aren’t _ you concerned about him?” Bellatrix shot back. ”I like the boy. He’s bright and polite. Which is why I’m quite surprised as to why he isn’t spending this holiday with you - this is his first Christmas after the passing of his father, isn’t it? I would’ve thought that you’d rather have him spend it with you.”

”We decided against that,” Sirius told her, smiling a bit as he thought of Harry. Merlin, how proud he was of the boy! ”I have to make sure that the third task goes without a hitch, and having him with me would cause a conflict of interest that the other competitors would capitalize on.”

”Even if he doesn’t win the third task, he’s bound to win the tournament as a whole,” Bellatrix said dismissively. ”No one who saw his performance at the second task can argue against it. Even Delacour’s admirers couldn’t rank her above him.”

”He did rather well, didn’t he?” Sirius sounded delighted as he spoke. Bellatrix fell silent for a moment, before she said:

”Do you know where he learned the killing curse?”

”It’s not taught at Durmstrang,” Sirius said, and shook his head. ”But there’s no way for me to know how he— I don’t even know how to  _ ask _ him about it.”

”Will he stay with you during the summer, at least?”

”Yes, I do believe so. Most of his personal belongings are at Grimmauld Place already, and his own house is sealed for now. He  _ could _ technically go there, but it won’t be properly his until he’s of age. Which is why he’s better off spending the summer with me while preparing for his fifth year at Durmstrang.”

“Will he be fine with that?”

“I think so. Although, if he prefers to stay at his own home, I don’t think I want to force him to move. I love Harry, but he’s very independent and capable.”

”After he wins the tournament, you know his life will be quite different,” Bellatrix pointed out. ”The Dark Lord will want to have him participate in Death Eater activities, and there will be quite a few journalists asking for his statements on irrelevant things. They’ll try to turn him into a celebrity, and he has to be ready for that.”

”Haven’t you seen the things Skeeter writes? They’re already trying that,” Sirius said. ”But for now, I think it’d better to focus on what comes next: the third task.”

”I thought everything was already sorted out about it?”

”Well, we might have to work on the timeline a bit. Since the task itself will require a bit of setting up, I believe it would be best to tell the champions about it well in advance and let them prepare.”

”Wouldn’t it be more exciting to watch them prepare for whatever it is?” Bellatrix asked. ”Or better yet - if it’s a battle, send them unprepared.”

”I think them being prepared will allow for a better show,” Sirius said. ”And unfortunately, making the audience watch them before the task itself begins would be quite boring.”

“Tell me,” Bellatrix said, leaning forward with an excited look on her face. “Is the third task anything like the first two?”

“Oh, Bella,” Sirius replied with a grin. “It’s much, much better.”

*

Harry doubted that he’d ever spend another Christmas quite the way he would spend it this year.

”This does look like a place specifically made for suspicious rituals of unknown origins,” the boy said, observing the gloomy atmosphere of the basement that Tom had led him to. ”The floating torches are a nice touch, although the lack of skeletons is a bit disappointing.”

”You’d do well to appreciate the things you see,” Tom sniped, clearly not delighted by Harry’s words. ”The basement is just fine and the ritual is hardly suspicious  _ or _ from unknown origins. In fact, let’s reiterate the things I’ve already told you—”

”And the things that I’ve already read a few times.”

”What the life debt did was create several connection points between you and that friend of yours. As time passed by, those connection points only grew stronger and stronger. What I will be doing is simply severing the connection points one by one, as cleanly as possible.”

”Will it be painful?” Harry asked, and regretted his question immediately. He didn’t want to sound weak, but he just... he didn’t have a good feeling about this. Tom gave him a look, and surprisingly, didn’t make fun of him. ”How will you do the severing?”

”The ritual itself will make the connection points visible to me,” Tom explained, moving towards a wooden table at an appropriately dark corner of the basement. There were a few books and bottles on it, and Harry wondered if they had been there before, or if they were somehow part of the ritual. ”But they have to be weakened enough for me to be able to cut them without causing you magical or psychological damage.”

”And how will that be done,” Harry asked, noting the lack of mention of his physical well-being. ”Will you use another spell, or something?”

”Or something,” Tom replied, and moved towards Harry with a small bowl in hand. ”This will take quite a while, and yes, it will be painful. Did you read about the complications regarding the severing process?”

”Yeah,” Harry said. ”The notes said that if the connection is too strong, it’ll just cause damage all around.”

”Yes, well, that’s one way to put it,” Tom said. ”Therefore, to make it more likely for us to succeed, we must put the life debt under some strain.”

”And... how is that done?”

”We’ll poison you a bit.”

”Poison me... a  _ bit _ ,” Harry repeated slowly, a cold feeling sweeping into the pit of his stomach. ” _ Explain _ . As clearly as you can, please.” Tom wouldn’t kill him, would he?

”Being closer to death will put a strain on the life debt and make the bonds easier for me to sever,” the man said, eyeing Harry with a carefully neutral expression. ”It is the best way to do this without killing your friend.” Harry stood still for a long time, watching the man in front of him, wondering if this was about to lead him somewhere he couldn’t come back from.

”You want me to drink poison,” he said. ”And if I do? Will you heal me?”

”If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t bother with such a complicated way of doing it,” Tom replied. “I could have done it at any other point during your stay here so far. Merlin knows you’re in the bad habit of falling asleep everywhere except your own bed in the safety of your room.”

”Unless you’re working on something in which consent to drink poison is needed,” Harry immediately argued. ”Consent for that would signify a willing sacrifice.”

”I can pour this down your throat with you kicking and screaming, if that will make you feel better,” Tom offered, before stepping closer yet again. ”Harry. I haven’t led you here to hurt you. I need you to trust me.” And wasn’t it, well,  _ something _ , that for once he had to ask for someone’s trust? And why did the thought of Harry  _ not _ trusting him seem so bothersome?

Harry took a few deep breaths before he nodded. What did he have to lose, really? His parents were dead, his friends would survive without him, and the Tournament would carry on whether or not he was a part of it. ”All right,” he said, finally. Merlin, he was  _ really _ out of his depth, wasn’t he? Why had he thought that he could match the Dark Lord in any kind of magic?

”I need you to undress enough for me to be able to cover at least half of your body in runes,” Tom then said. ”This will make locating the connection points easier.” Harry complied without a word, feeling oddly detached all of a sudden. As if he was no longer associated with what was happening. All he could hear was the sound of his own surprisingly steady heartbeat as he undressed slowly.

Once done, he approached Tom.

”I need you to relax a bit,” the man told him, dipping his fingers into the bowl before reaching towards Harry and drawing something on his chest. ”Let’s talk, will that make you feel better? You do enjoy talking.”

”I’m cold,” Harry whispered, feeling vulnerable. Tom’s eyes, red unlike any other, glanced up before going back to observe the runes he was drawing.

”Did you enjoy Istanbul?” Tom asked then, unsure of why Harry’s obvious discomfort unsettled him so. Merlin be damned, but he did want the boy to calm down and trust him. ”Did you know of your target before? You seemed quite familiar with his work.”

”What?” Harry asked, frowning. ”His work?”

”The painting,” Tom clarified, and was just about to continue when he saw Harry’s eyes widen in terror, and the boy’s hands flew to Tom’s mouth, silencing him. Surprised, Tom let him.

”Don’t... don’t mention that painting,” Harry whispered, his green eyes wide and bright in fear. ”Tom, promise me— I know you want to know everything, but—”

”Well,” Tom murmured, pulling his head back and dislodging Harry’s hold, ”now you’ve made me curious.”

”Tom, there are things that I know only because of where I can go,” Harry told him, the thought of Tom becoming aware of the Fading Tribe  _ terrified _ him. He didn’t know enough yet to warn him, but there was something in Harry that made him feel - deeply, uncompromisingly - that Tom should  _ never _ find out about the Fading Tribe. ”Things that you, for your own sake, shouldn’t approach or look into. Just... just carry on with the ritual.”

The Dark Lord looked at him for a few long moments before he narrowed his eyes and continued drawing the runes. He hadn’t come this far without a sense of self-preservation, and if a boy who could die and come back to life told him to not seek something, then he could let it slide – for now, at least. He didn’t know what that painting could be about, and he had learned better than to investigate anything that could bring him closer to death than he absolutely had to be.

”Because of where you can go, huh,” the man said. ”Sometimes I forget that you can go and come back from where no one else could return.”

”I’m sorry,” Harry said. ”But, if it makes you feel any better, it has no impact on anything you wish to do.”

”I suppose. Turn around, I need to paint some on your back.”

Harry turned, cold and shivering, feeling strangely disoriented and confused. Merlin, to go from worrying about the ritual, to worrying about being poisoned, and then panicking due to what Tom had brought up... Harry couldn’t wait for this all to be over and for him to just...  _ be _ . Come summer, he would spend it all alone at home. He knew that Sirius wanted him to live at Grimmauld Place, but Harry only wanted to go home. Even if his parent’s wouldn’t be there, he just wanted—

”I’m done,” Tom said, interrupting Harry’s train of thoughts. ”Now, I need you to drink the potion and trust me. Can you do that?”

”Yes,” Harry replied, already feeling sick. The potion Tom handed him was colourless and smelled of nothing. When he drank it, it tasted metallic.

”Lie down,” Tom instructed, and Harry once again complied. The floor of the basement was cold against his bare back, and felt almost painful.

”I can’t believe I trust you this much,” Harry said, and reached to hold Tom’s hand. Tom let it happen, and held his wand with his other hand instead. He looked at Harry’s face, at the boy’s closed eyes, and couldn’t help but reluctantly admit that perhaps the boy was worth knowing even  _ without _ his ability of conversing with the dead.

A moment later the runes on Harry activated, and the web of the life debt became visible as strands of lowly burning fire that tangled up in large knots, signifying the connection points. Harry’s breathing was heavy, and Tom could see him sweating already despite the cold. The connection points flickered in and out, telling him more than anything of the impact the poison had on Harry.

Harry’s grip on his hand became even tighter.

Merlin, the boy really  _ did _ trust him, didn’t he?

And even more absurdly - Tom was acutely aware of his own desire to not fail that trust.

The runes on Harry’s body shone brightly, reflecting the web of the life debt that Tom was untangling. He knew that somewhere - he didn’t care to know where - Harry’s friend was experiencing excruciating, unexpected pain. He had his suspicions on the long-lasting effects that severing the life debt would do but didn’t see it necessary to inform Harry of the small details, especially if it meant Harry backing out of the ritual. He couldn’t let the life debt remain, however, as it had been turning into a hindrance to the boy’s development.

And, well, whatever ended up happening to Harry and his friend’s relationship… Tom was sure he would be able to spin it to his favour. Besides, from what he had seen, the two had became far too close anyway. Harry, if he wanted to become the kind of Death Eater that Tom wanted him to, wouldn’t be able to afford such a close friendship.

The effect that severing the life debt would have on Harry’s friend would drive the two boys apart, and despite how much it would upset Harry, Tom was sure that the boy would understand the long-term value of that distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before y'all get too happy about Harry trusting Tom to poison him, wait for his pov next chapter ok


	40. Chapter 40

Harry woke up sore, cold, and momentarily disoriented. Sadly enough, that was a state of being that he was quite familiar with by now. Due to the absence of any detectable immediate danger, the boy remained still in his bed for a moment longer, trying to make sense of the world.

He was in a room that wasn’t exactly _his_ , but one that Tom had given him when they had arrived to this house. Harry didn’t feel like he was injured in any way, although… he did feel strangely _bereft_ of something... something he couldn’t _quite_ put his finger on. Did it have something to do with the ritual? Had they succeeded? Was the life debt gone, now?

_’If the life debt is gone,’_ Harry thought _, ’then what about... what about Truls?’_ Was his friend all right? Tom would know, wouldn’t he? Should Harry call for him, or go look for him? To ask about Truls, just in case. What if Truls was hurt? After a few moments of contemplation, Harry, feeling shaky, sat up and moved to the edge of the bed. His feet had barely touched the ground when a house-elf popped in, looking at him with its wide, bulging eyes.

”Master Potter is awake!” it squeaked. ”Master Potter’s bath will be ready right away. Does Master Potter require help? Tinsel can help Master Potter to his bath—”

”Thank you,” Harry interrupted, realizing that perhaps a quick scrub wouldn’t go amiss. He was clean, he could feel that, but clean in a way that spoke of _scourgify_ , rather than soap and water. It was clean but... not... _clean_. ”I can get to the bathroom on my own. Um... I would appreciate a change of clothes and a towel to be ready for me when I get out. Or, you know, just put them in the bathroom on a chair or something.”

”Of course, Master Potter,” Tinsel replied. ”Tinsel will make it happen, Master Potter!”

Harry’s steps were heavy and shaky when he finally began the short walk from his bed to the bathroom adjacent to his room, and by the time he had undressed and climbed into the bathtub, he could barely hold himself up. He sunk into the warm water with a relieved sigh, and sat still for a few moments, his thoughts drifting back to the life debt.

If removing it had been a success... then... what would happen next? There was an unpleasant feeling at the pit of his stomach, a ball of anxiety and fear that he wasn’t sure how to handle, no matter how used to this feeling he was by now. _Merlin_ , how he missed his friends. Not just Truls, but also Clemens, Filippa, Björn, and everyone else. Luna, too, even though she was at Hogwarts and he could have seen her more often. He hoped that she’d like the gift he sent her: a book on mythical creatures. He knew that he would like whatever she sent him, even if he wouldn’t have a use for it. He had liked the earrings even if he hadn’t worn them in a long time, and the face mask that she had sent him... it was nice?

_’Not everything has to be useful,’_ Harry thought to himself with a sigh, thinking of washing his hair but finding the shampoo too far to reach for. _’Where would I need a mask after all?’_ The only place he struggled to breathe in was the train station, but what were the odds of that mask working for him there?

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when the door of the bathroom was pulled open, and Tom stepped in. The man looked fine as ever, dressed in clearly tailored robes, with his hair neatly combed back. The smug look that Harry had begun to suspect to be just Tom’s, well, _face_ , was there as always, and the man sounded almost pleasant when he spoke:

”Glad to see you awake,” Tom said. ”How are you feeling?”

”Weak and sore. I can barely move my limbs,” Harry replied, and then gestured towards the shampoo. ”Hand me that.”

Tom hummed in response, and grabbed the bottle of shampoo before moving closer to Harry. ”And how were you planning on washing your hair, if you can barely move?”

” _You_ wash my hair, then,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. ”Merlin knows I would appreciate it.” When his words were met with a douse of water to the head, Harry thought that Tom would follow it up by throwing the bottle of shampoo at him as well, before leaving him to his own company for now. Much to his surprise, however, the Dark Lord kneeled down by the bathtub, and poured some of the shampoo onto his hand, before rubbing it into Harry’s wet hair with hesitant moves.

Harry wasn’t sure what to think any of this, but he didn’t hate it.

”Not many would have drank that poison,” Tom suddenly said, startling Harry again. ”You did well.”

Harry closed his eyes, unsure of what to say at first. Yes, he had taken the poison Tom had given him, but... it wasn’t simple trust that had made him do it. Harry didn’t consider himself _reckless_ , but neither was he incapable of taking risks when necessary – not when the stakes were as high as they were in his life. He _needed_ Tom’s trust, and if gambling with his life and drinking the poison Tom had handed him was an action that made the man believe Harry to have blind faith in him... then wasn’t it simply the wisest thing to do?

”The life debt is gone now, isn’t it?” Harry asked.

”Yes,” Tom replied, and Harry’s relief nearly drowned under the second douse of water that washed the shampoo out of his hair. ”You can rest until lunch, and after that... we’ll start by trying to send you to the train station, and see how that goes.”

”Wow,” Harry said mockingly, wiping water from his face and blinking his eyes open. ”Not even a full day’s rest.”

”Do you need a full day’s rest?”

Harry fell silent for a few moments, and thought of Delacour and the third task that loomed ahead of him. ”No,” he said. ”After lunch is good.”

*

The earlier feeling of bereavement had vanished, making Harry feel somehow... light on the inside. He still felt cold, but in a way that had nothing to do with his surroundings; a light chill that settled into his bones as if it was a part of him. The soup he was eating didn’t warm him up by much, but he wasn’t about to complain. Not when there was so much else he’d rather talk about.

”Is there anything you can tell me regarding the third task?”

”No,” Tom replied absently, browsing through the day’s paper. ”Mainly because even _I_ know very little of its details. Which is why I’ll be sure to teach you as much as possible.”

”Do you want me to win?” A long time ago Tom had called Harry his champion, and told Harry to do his best. But watching him try his best from the sidelines was a fair bit different from actively training him. Even if Tom wasn’t doing it for free.

”I want to be impressed,” the man finally said. ”You and Delacour have both succeeded in that, so far.” And— Merlin, how was— Harry didn’t _hate_ Delacour, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel happy about the words Tom had just said. Something about them had taken Harry’s good mood and appetite away.

”You said you wanted me to try going to the train station again?” Harry asked, pushing his plate aside. ”Anything else?”

”Nothing for now,” Tom replied. ”We’ll start by sending you there to see if that can be done. If it is possible, you can start asking about Regulus Black again. I am certain that he is still alive, but... well, there is always a chance.”

”And then?”

”Oh, that would be all for today. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to training you. You’ll also want to open your Christmas gifts, I believe.”

”Will we do apparition training again, tomorrow?” Harry asked, dreading the answer. Tom, sensing his discomfort, smirked at him.

”It’s only for your own good,” the main said. ”We’ll practice it every day. There are, however, a few other things I’ll be teaching you, but you needn’t worry about any of that yet.”

”Yeah,” Harry sighed, shaking his head and thinking of rain and wind and steel already. ”First, the train st—”

_The shift caught him off guard, and the next thing Harry knew he was sitting on a bench in a familiar station, surrounded by more people than he could take a moment to count. The noise –_ Merlin _, it was so_ loud _, the people were talking while some trains arrived and some left. There were bells ringing, and a huge clock near the ceiling that Harry never seen before was ticking loud enough for him to_ feel _it._

_What was he supposed to do, again? Oh yes, look for Regulus Black. But how was he supposed to look for anyone in this crowd? He couldn’t even find Merope or Albus._

_Harry coughed, absently noting how thin and dry the air felt. Uncomfortable, in ways he wasn’t sure how to describe. He sat still, not knowing what to do, but in the absence of a pull to take him back to the world of the living, he didn’t feel the urgency to leave. Someone sat by him on the bench for a brief moment, rummaging through their pockets, before the sound of a train’s horn got them moving again. Someone else almost fell on top of him, pushed by the crowd, before again disappearing into the masses._

_Harry, to get a better view of the station, moved to stand up on the bench. The only thing he could see better now were the trains themselves, and the size of the crowd. Merlin, how many people were there? And they kept just... appearing. With every person that went off into a train, another came to the station._

_He was so caught up in trying to make sense of the world around him, that it took him a while to notice that someone was watching him. When he finally did notice, with dread in his gut, Harry turned his head, and ended up looking straight towards a towering... entity. It wasn’t a person, no matter how humanoid it looked. Its ashen skin had a blue tint to it, and Harry knew that once again, this had to be one of the tribe. He wasn’t close enough to see its eyes, but its face was turned towards Harry, and Harry_ knew _that it had been looking at him. It wasn’t… it wasn’t the same one he had seen in Istanbul._

_Breathing became harder, and he regretted nothing as much as standing right then. If he had been sitting down,_ surely _the thing wouldn’t have noticed him? But oh, he knew better than to truly believe that. They were following him, and somehow, they could find him even here, at the train station. And it would be only a matter of time before they would find him in Durmstrang._

Harry returned to where he had been, sitting by the table, with an impact that made him lurch forward and lean against the hard surface. He could hear a strange sound, like a dog gasping for breath, barely audible over the thundering beats of his heart. He was sweaty, and nauseated. What snapped him out of this state was a sudden gust of clean air, and then someone – Tom, _of course it was Tom_ , no one else was there aside from the two of them and a handful of house-elves – dragged him to the couch, and pushed him to lie down. Harry clenched his eyes shut for a few long moments, before the world felt somewhat stable again.

After silence, Tom spoke: ”Well, that was interesting. Do explain.”

”Do you remember when I told you,” Harry wheezed, feeling drained to the bone, ”about the things I know that I cannot tell you.”

”Because of where you can go,” Tom said, nodding. ”You need to rethink this new habit of withholding information, if this is what ends up happening when you’re working on a task I’ve given you.”

”I’m not hiding information,” Harry replied tiredly, and closed his eyes. Merlin, the couch was soft. His head hurt. ”I’m protecting you.”

*

Tom didn’t ask him about the train station again.

Oh, he still sent him there. Every morning, right after apparition practice. But the few times that Harry returned pale and trembling, gasping for breath, he didn’t ask what had put him into such a state. Instead, he decided to add more into Harry’s training schedule. To distract him.

”We’ve discussed this before,” Tom said one afternoon, after a generous dinner. Harry was lying on his back by the fireplace, warm and content with his life for the time being. ”The Imperius Curse. You know what it is, don’t you?”

”I do,” Harry replied, opening his eyes and turning towards Tom. ”It’s removes a person’s free will.”

”It sounds exactly like the kind of a curse you would hate from a moral perspective,” Tom said, before narrowing his eyes at the boy. ”Am I right?”

”I know you’re trying to make fun of me,” Harry replied. ”But as a matter of fact, I once wrote an essay—”

”Of course you did.”

”—and I think that referring to it as less harmful than the Cruciatus curse or the Killing curse is arguably incorrect, because—”

”Oh, Merlin, why is this happening.”

”—the physical pain of Cruciatus, if inflicted only for short periods of time, which is usually the case, doesn’t equate to the psychological damage that—”

”We’re not having this conversation,” Tom decided, and silenced Harry with a wave of his wand. The betrayed look the boy levelled at him was nothing short of delightful. ”And you needn’t worry about your sensibilities quite yet. Before we get around to you even _trying_ to cast it— on someone else, mind you. Not me. We will begin by you trying to overcome it.”

”I remember that conversation,” Harry sighed sadly, as soon as Tom cancelled the silencing spell. ”It’s going to be a lot of work, isn’t it? Don’t make me do anything embarrassing.”

”There’s no joy in embarrassing you when it’s only the two of us here,” Tom said. ”It is a wonder that Durmstrang hasn’t incorporated this lecture into their curriculum yet.”

”Overcoming the Imperius? Do you want them to? I’m sure they’ll get it done if you tell them.”

”Hmm.”

”Oh,” Harry suddenly said, nodding slowly. ”You _would_ think that.”

”Think what?” Tom asked. ”I didn’t say anything.”

”Well, you didn’t _say_ anything, but you made that _hmm_ sound and we both know what it means.”

”We do?”

”You make it whenever you think you have a good idea, but can’t make it happen for some self-determined reason,” Harry said. ”You made the same sound when you considered the exchange program between schools, but then dismissed the idea because, well, as much as we could learn from Beauxbatons, they would also benefit in equal measure.”

Tom watched Harry with wide eyes, and didn’t stop the boy when he continued: ”I think that you find the thought of teaching people how to shrug off the imperius good and useful, in case they fight against rebels, but you also don’t trust them with a skill that will render one of the most useful Dark curses virtually useless, in case _you’re_ the one who needs to subject them to it.”

”I think you’re reading too much into a passing thought,” Tom managed to say, despite how unsettling he found Harry’s observation. There was a conclusion, somewhere in there, that he didn’t want to even think of. The conclusion that somehow, despite all good sense, he actually had gotten _close_ —

”Probably,” Harry said with a shrug. ”Either way, it’s hard to say when such a curse is needed.” He hadn’t thought that he’d ever have to use the killing curse, but live and learn, really.

”Unexpected words from someone so hung up on the ethical implications of the imperius,” Tom said dryly.

”I know you think I’m naive, and that I trust everyone blindly,” Harry argued, rolling his eyes. ”But considering that you never know who is going to stand by you in the end, I do understand the necessity of not... helping them build up their defenses.”

”You _don’t_ trust everyone blindly?”

Harry thought of Truls, and how close they were, and of the vow of secrecy he had made the boy take before agreeing to go to the Yule Ball with him. ”No.”

”Colour me surprised,” Tom drawled, clearly not believing Harry. ”You’ve been very trusting in my company, for a very long time now.”

”Yes, Tom, I have,” Harry said, avoiding eye-contact in a pretense of bashfulness, while the thought of occlumency briefly ran through his mind. ”But it has less to do with me trusting people in general, and more to do with me trusting you in particular.”

”That—”

”Tom,” Harry interrupted, looking up at the man, and desperately hoping that he wouldn’t think to use legilimency right then. While he wasn’t outright _lying_ , he _was_ attempting to manipulate one of the strongest – if not _the_ strongest – wizard alive. ”You handed me poison, and I willingly drank it. Do you think I would do it for anyone else?”

”I wouldn’t know,” Tom claimed, but Merlin, he did know, didn’t he? He knew that no matter Harry’s flaws – and by Circe, the boy had plenty of them – he wasn’t as foolishly trusting anymore as he had once been. But, once again, this wasn’t a conversation Tom wanted to have. ”Tomorrow I’ll put you under imperius, and you’ll have to try and apparate, despite my orders.”

”I can barely apparate now _with_ your orders,” Harry said, finally sitting up. He didn’t resist the shift of the conversation away from trust issues, knowing that there was nothing good to be gained by making Tom feel uncomfortable about having feelings. ”You think I can somehow resist your command and apparate? Are you insane or pretending to be humble about your abili- _ah_!” The stinging hex hit Harry’s calf, making the boy yelp in pain.

”You do realize that you ought to speak to me in a completely different manner, don’t you?”

”Consider it a security measure,” Harry said. ”If anyone ever tries to steal my identity and use polyjuice--”

”Why would anyone bother?” Tom asked, unimpressed. ”You’re a nobody.”

”Not if I win the Tournament,” Harry reminded him. ”But, if anyone ever _does_ pretend to be me, all you need to do is—”

”Hear them talk,  yes, yes,” Tom sighed, reluctantly amused. ”Merlin forbid you’d ever speak to me respectfully in private.”

”You complain now, but you’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Harry said. ”In a few weeks, back at Hogwarts, too busy to be bullied by you.”

Tom scoffed, clearly in disagreement.

But he didn’t argue.

*

Tom had instructed him against taking the train, and told him to apparate to Hogsmeade instead. Despite his reluctance to apparate all alone in case anything went wrong, Harry obeyed, and reached Hogwarts hours before the train would arrive. The boy was... nervous about his return to Hogwarts. Going back to Durmstrang was always so _easy_. Going back to his own apartment, meeting his friends who lived so close to him. Attending lectures in familiar rooms, living a routine he knew by heart. Hogwarts was so different, and was so full of people. There were so many students there that Harry doubted anyone could remember them all.

Also, he was nervous about Truls.

Very nervous.

It didn’t really help that Truls didn’t arrive until much later in the day, less than an hour before dinner. Nothing appeared to be out of ordinary, and Harry refused to read too much into the surprisingly sharp searching look he had received from his best friend earlier. During dinner Truls sat by Harry’s side as usual, and after a few moments of friendly and familiar pleasantries, Truls was drawn into a Quidditch discussion with Krum. Harry... wasn’t sure if anything had changed. Truls hadn’t yet mentioned anything about the life debt, but that could be simply due to him not having the time for it. He looked fine – well and healthy, didn’t he?

”Is everything all right?” Mette asked suddenly, leaning closer. ”You’re not eating.”

”Oh, no, everything is fine,” Harry replied immediately, and offered her a smile. ”It’s just, well, the tournament. I wish I knew what the third task was, already. I hate waiting.”

”People are betting left and right,” Maria said, joining the conversation. ”The most popular bet so far is that you’ll be fighting a dragon.”

”That’s ridiculous,” Mette huffed, shaking her head. ”There’s no way they’d do something like that.”

”It would be exciting to watch,” Ingrid pointed out, helping herself to more soup. ”We don’t see people battling dragons too often.”

”For a very good reason, I’m sure,” Mette replied. ”The most believable suggestion that I heard, was about a three-way duel between the champions. Think you can handle that, Harry?”

”I could try,” Harry replied, though he hoped that the third task _wasn’t_ a duel against the other two champions. He had no interest in going against George or Delacour. Although... if he defeated Delacour, wouldn’t _that_ be something?

”You still have that confidence thing going on,” Metter sighed. ”The lack of it, really. The sooner you realize that you’re a _celebrity_ now—”

”I am _not_ ,” Harry cut her off, horrified. This, for some reason, made Anthony Lestrange chuckle, which was already a bad omen for Harry. ”Why would I be a celebrity? That is ridiculous!”

”Well, you did perform spectacularly in the Tournament so far,” Mette reminded him. ”Not only that, but you’re the youngest champion, and from Durmstrang. If you capitalize on your fame—”

”What fame!?”

”—you can make a career out of it.”

”He really doesn’t seem to be the type to do that,” Lestrange pointed out. ”Look at him. He’s shaking.”

There was a feeling of something being amiss, but Harry couldn’t dwell on it, choosing to speak instead: ”I’m sure that once the tournament is over, people will move on. Durmstrang doesn’t allow journalists, after all, even if it weren’t unplottable.”

”Oh, keep thinking that,” Lestrange replied, and why was he enjoying this now, anyway? Did the thought of Harry being harassed by journalists delight him that much? ”You’ll see in the summer.”

”While I hate to agree with him, it does mean that you’ll be expected to behave a certain way,” Ingrid said. ”To represent Durmstrang, no matter when or where.”

”I’m not sure what you think I do when I’m on my own and away from school,” Harry told her, ”but I doubt that the truth is half as exciting as how you’re imagining it to be.” After all, talking to dead people and conspiring to somehow rescue Tom from himself weren’t exactly exciting activities. Stressful, is what he would call them.

”Well, so far so good, when it comes to journalists,” Mette said, just as Harry’s thoughts began drifting to what could be amiss. ”I mean, Skeeter likes him well enough. She’s only ever written nice things about him.”

”So far, as you said,” Lestrange replied, clearly pleased by the thought of Skeeter turning against Harry. ”But once he makes a mistake, then there he goes. That’s the way they operate, you know. Journalists.”

”Unlike some others, such as you, Harry isn’t the type to pick fights with strangers and cause trouble in public,” Maria said, and though Harry was grateful, he was also surprised by the confidence of her assessment: he didn’t really know her, after all, and she barely knew him.

”Are you implying something?” Lestrange asked, the tone of his voice changing abruptly. ”You need to be more careful, you know. We’re supposed to present a united front while we’re among these... _people_.”

Increasingly uncomfortable with the situation, Harry tried to focus on the decorations of the Great Hall instead. While any signs of Christmas were well and truly gone, there was still a somewhat festive atmosphere. He glanced at the Ravenclaw table, saw Luna, who was wholly focused on something flying above her drink. At the Gryffindor table, just behind the Ravenclaws, Harry was Ron and Hermione, and a few of their friends.

Harry couldn’t _wait_ to find a moment to talk with Hermione - the girl had left for the holidays with a list of things she’d be researching, and Harry was curious to know if she had found anything interesting. Maybe she, too, had looked forward to spending time with him again. Of course, he’d have to try and dodge Truls’s—

_Oh_.

With a realization tinted in alarm, Harry finally figured out what had bothered him for a while now. Truls hadn’t, not after the initial greetings, so much as looked his way. He hadn’t joined their conversation, hadn’t reached to Harry, hadn’t— Nothing, he had done _nothing_ , aside from focus on his conversation with Viktor. Harry, feeling worried all of a sudden, wasn’t sure of what to do.

Maybe it was just… all in his head?

*

It continued.

The situation with Truls. If it could be called a situation. It wasn’t that much had changed, really... certainly not enough for anyone else to realize that something was different. Truls and Harry still spent most of their time together, and they were still far too close than what was usually considered common between two boys of their age.

But Harry... Harry knew that something had changed.

Truls wasn’t as quick to come to him, anymore. Not as eager to ask for Harry’s opinions, or sit quietly for hours by his side. He wasn’t as jealous as he had been, and hadn’t tried to kiss Harry again. Instead, sometimes, Harry would catch the boy watching him with a blank look on his face. Truls would still wrap his arm around Harry’s shoulders, but the times that he’d do that were becoming fewer and fewer in number. He didn’t seem mad, or anything. It also didn’t appear to be something Truls was doing intentionally, and they hadn’t discussed the life debt yet. Truls hadn’t asked him about it - not even once.

What had happened? Should Harry confront him about it?

It was as if he was just, slowly but surely, beginning to care less and less about Harry. Which was a terrifying thought, but was it selfish of Harry to think so? If the life debt had been what had kept Truls by his side all these years, then was it fair of Harry to feel abandoned now? Besides... perhaps they were just... relearning their friendship, in a way, right? Maybe he was just making up things, too caught up in his anxiety and thus thinking that something was wrong, when nothing really was?

”A sickle for your thoughts?” a familiar voice asked then, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. He turned to see Hermione, smiling at him nervously. He mustered up a smile in return, pushing the thoughts of Truls aside for now.

”Not worth that much, really,” he replied. ”Want to sit down? How was your holiday?”

”Oh, it was great,” the girl said quietly, and sat down after casting a quick look around them, in case someone was watching. ”I’ve been reading up on, well, the things we discussed last time.”

Harry felt sick, again, his anxiety returning tenfold. ”You mean...?”

”The train station,” Hermione whispered, leaning closer. ”It’s such a _fascinating_ thing, Harry! The closest equivalent of it that I found was, well, a limbo. In numerous beliefs, there is a concept of a state between life and death - a place called limbo. I think that might be what the train station is.”

Harry, who had never expected to actually learn about the odd things in his life, was stunned. ”When someone dies, they go to the station, and from there they board a train that takes them... where?”

”I couldn’t find information on that, unfortunately,” Hermione admitted with disappointment. ”But there’s still _so much_ I could research. I haven’t studied any of this before, you see - the subject just never seemed, well, relevant. But now it is, and oh, Harry— there are so many books and so many perspectives and theories! Plenty of them are humbug, of course, but, it is so amazing!”

” _You’re_ amazing,” Harry blurted, deeply impressed. ”The way you just... find out these things, I... I mean, of course everyone writes essays and such, but you just... you do beyond that. Hermione, _you’re_ amazing.”

”Thank you,” the girl replied, her smile wide and bright, a blush on her dark cheeks. ”I mean, between you and me, I think I have what it takes to get an apprenticeship or work for the ministry.”

”I’m sure you do,” Harry agreed. ”Which one will you try for?”

”Oh, neither,” the witch dismissed, her smile losing its radiance. ”They don’t let muggleborns— well, I mean, it doesn’t matter how smart I am, very few professors here would grade me well enough for me to qualify. They don’t... even if my assignments are perfect - and everyone knows, you see, the students know and they ask me for help - some teachers won’t give me anything above Acceptable.”

Harry, who hadn’t even realized that this was yet another way for Voldemort’s people to contain those they do not approve of, was stunned. ”That... that must be changed.”

”How?” Hermione asked, looking at him with a tired expression. ”There’s no way for it to change, not unless everything else changes first. And even then, it’s very difficult to prove that a teacher is being unfair, you know. They would just say that perhaps I’m not as smart as I think I am, or didn’t do as well as I thought I would. That’s what they said to me in the beginning, before I stopped asking about it.”

”We’ll figure something out,” Harry replied, his anxiety giving way to deep, calming anger. ”You keep studying and doing your best - I promise that you won’t regret it in the end.”

”I trust you, Harry,” the witch said, looking at him with a serious expression. ”But as we discussed before, to generate enough influence to bring change, you must start by winning the tournament. The third task - whatever it is - must leave an even stronger impression of you than either of the two tasks before it.”

”That... I know. But I’m not sure how to do better than I did in the second task.”

”We need to start out with finding your niche, if you remember what we talked about,” Hermione reminded him. ”I will keep looking for information, of course, but I think that your ability to go to the train station is something that we can build on.”

”I think we need to find out the reason why I can even do it,” Harry said. ”If it is a branch of magic that I just happen to know, somehow, then sure... I could learn to use it. But if it’s something else...” He had asked Merope, a long time ago, if he could go to the train station due to the circumstances of his birth. He never did receive a clear answer.

”I’ve been thinking about that,” Hermione admitted. ”And, well, you told me something that I think you dismissed too early.”

”And that is?”

”You said that you when you go to the train station, you get this… sliding sensation, right? Like an energy of some sort.”

“Yes, more or less,” Harry replied, unsure of what she was going for.

“Can you re-direct that energy?” Hermione said. “Perhaps it could result in a… I’m not sure what, but if you held on to that energy, and cast a simple lumos – what would happen? Would you like to test it out?”


	41. Chapter 41

A few weeks into the second half of the school year found Harry just as lost and worried as he had been at the start of it. Even now, as he tried to focus on his homework, thoughts of Truls and their relationship kept distracting him. The situation was made worse, perhaps, by Harry’s doubts regarding whether or not this new distance was real, or simply something he had conjured in his mind. And if it so happened that he _wasn’t_ imagining things, and that Truls _had_ become more distant – did Harry have any right to be upset about it?

 _’I can’t even ask him if he felt anything happen while I was going through the ritual. Or can I? Should I? Would it be weird?’_ Harry sighed, looking at the fireplace of the common room, and tried to think of a way to approach Truls and strike up a proper conversation without making everything awkward. But – if anything _had_ happened – why hadn’t Truls approached him to talk about it?

”I can’t believe that this all will be over in a couple of months,” Maria said suddenly, lying down on one of the couches. ”I miss Durmstrang.”

”Won’t you miss Hogwarts at all?” Mette asked, seemingly brushing her brows. Harry hadn’t even known that brows ought to be brushed. Was this another thing that everyone knew about except him? Should he have been brushing his brows all this time, too? ”Didn’t you manage to make a single friend?”

”Sure I did,” the other witch replied. ”I made quite a few friends. But I still miss Durmstrang. Hogwarts is nice but it’s so… _social_.”

Harry missed Durmstrang, too. And he missed Filippa, and Clemens, and Björn and everyone else. Although... he _had_ found a friend in Hermione, and he suspected that if he was going to miss anyone aside from Luna, it’d be the muggle-born witch. Merlin, how smart could a person be – she was _brilliant_ , and it was maddening how it all went to waste due to people’s prejudice against her blood. Ridiculous! If only he had Hermione with him at Durmstrang... Harry couldn’t help but feel that his life would have been quite a bit easier. For Merlins’s sake, the research she had done about the train station! Sure, Harry had known that it was a stop before death, a _limbo_ , as Hermione had called it, but still! And then... her suggestion...

Harry wasn’t sure how easily he could grab a hold of the energy that allowed him to go to the train station. He could feel it; it was hard _not_ to differentiate such an unusual kind of energy from the norm. But _using_ it? Where on earth could he practice that? What if it ended up being dangerous? Was it a risk he was willing to take, with the third task still ahead of him? What if something went wrong? Then again – what if nothing happened, at all? Harry couldn’t imagine what casting a _lumos_ with that other energy would be like. Would it make the spell stronger? Or different in some other way?

The third task would be his best chance to make a lasting impact on the public as a whole, including Tom. The thought of treating it like some sort of a _show_ was repulsive, but that didn’t change that fact that that was exactly what the tournament was meant to be: a show for entertainment. Whether he liked it or not, he’d have to put up a show that even Delacour wouldn’t be able to match.

”Harry,” someone suddenly called, and the boy looked up to see Ingrid standing by the entrance of the common room.

”Yes?”

”Your presence is required at Headmaster Yaxley’s office.”

”Is this about the third task?” Maria asked, clearly excited. Harry closed his book and set in on the table, before standing up and heading towards the doorway. “Tell us how it went, when you get back,” the witch yelled after him.

“Sure,” Harry replied, anxiety burning like a pool of acid in his stomach. He knew the way to the Headmaster’s office quite well by now, and arrived there just in time to see Delacour opening the entrance. The witch, dressed in her school’s blue uniform, gave him a quick look, before clearly dismissing him and entering the Headmaster’s office. He followed her inside, ignoring the sting that came with being snubbed by someone he considered a rival of sorts, and wasn’t surprised to see George and Sirius already there. What he was surprised about, however, was that neither Karkaroff nor Madame Maxime were present.

His godfather was lounging on one of the chairs, looking well-rested and delighted. Harry envied his ability to care so little about the things that this tournament had brought to light. Harry _loved_ his godfather, but it was hard to deal with the disappointments that he had been faced with regarding the man. Did he even have the right to _be_ disappointed?

“You’re here, wonderful,” Yaxley said, and with a wave of his hand, the entrance closed. He eyed the three champions briefly, before sighing heavily. Harry suspected he wasn’t the only one unhappy with the event, although he doubted that Yaxley shared his reasons. “Now – do take seats, everyone – it’s time for you to learn more about the upcoming third task. Of course, you are strictly prohibited from revealing this information to anyone. We are informing you this early of the event due to the amount of preparation each one of you will be doing. Black here will explain the task itself in more detail.” Yaxley then nodded towards Sirius, who grinned, and sat up properly in his seat.

“The task will take place during the second week of March,” Sirius said, offering Harry an encouraging smile as he took charge of the conversation. “From Monday, the sixth, until Sunday, the twelfth. Almost exactly a month from today. Your task is to find a Rebel – a _real_ member of the resistance – and defeat them in battle. Whether you dispose of them, or bring them for questioning, is entirely up to you. You will have a month to plan your course of action in private, and then a week to complete your mission. There are some practicalities that you must know—”

*

The thought of tracking down a Rebel and fighting them was terrifying.

Harry, after the classes were over, had quietly left his things on his bed, and opted to take a walk outside. Alone. His head felt like it was too full for him to be able to rest, and his inability to sort out his thoughts was distressing. He didn’t know where he could find a Rebel, and even if he did… he didn’t want to fight one. Harry knew that whoever he would end up fighting would most likely fight to kill him – after all, why not? As far as Rebels would know, he was just yet another Death Eater out to get them.

Did he have _any_ chance of beating one them, anyway? Perhaps if he found that _niche_ of his, but time was going by fast and he still had no idea of any special, hidden talents that he may have. He hadn’t been able to try out Hermione’s idea yet, and Harry didn’t know when he would be able to do that. Or where. He didn’t want to do it _inside_ the castle – who knew what kind of spells they had monitoring the activities happening there – but he couldn’t exactly do anything outside by the lake, either.

 _‘Perhaps I could ask for permission to go home for a few days,’_ Harry thought. _‘Karkaroff might allow it, if he thinks that it’s what I need to do to win.’_ But would he alert Tom? If he did manage to come up with something amazing, then Harry didn’t want Tom to find out about it beforehand. He wanted to… surprise the Dark Lord. Impress him. Do something even Delacour couldn’t.

Deep in his thoughts, it took Harry a while before he realized that there was someone following him. Even so, he kept walking forward aimlessly, reluctant to turn and confront whoever was trailing behind him. He hoped it wasn’t Skeeter – no matter how much she allegedly liked him, her presence was _exhausting_.

Eventually, however, Harry came to a stop by one of the large windows of an otherwise empty corridor, and whoever had been following him, came to stand by his side. Anxiety washed over Harry the instant he realized that it was Truls. His dread towards the third task was overwhelmed by the feeling he got when he saw his friend.

“We haven’t spoken in a while,” Truls said, after a moment of hesitation. “Spoken properly, I mean.”

“Yes,” Harry said, not knowing how to continue from there. Was Truls upset? What did he want _now_? Was there something he wanted for Harry to say, at this point? “I… I expected us to talk sooner, but you didn’t seem injured… or otherwise hurt.” Or willing to spend time with Harry alone.

“I’m not,” Truls confirmed, and there was a look in his bright blue eyes that Harry couldn’t quite decipher. “You got rid of the life debt. _That_ was a painful experience, at the time, but… I thank you for it.”

 _‘So he_ did _feel it,’_ Harry thought, and took a deep breath. Was this something worth confronting Tom about? The man had said that Truls wouldn’t feel a thing, hadn’t he? _‘He’s thankful. Does it meant that something has changed? He was against it before…’_

“I don’t want to lose you,” Truls said suddenly, his voice low but clear. “I care about you. _So much_. But it’s… different, now.” The boy took in a shaky breath, before he continued: “Before, there was this… compulsion. I thought about you every single time I had a decision to make. I needed you to be happy, and I needed you to be… I needed… I wanted you to make me… I wanted you to feel that too. About me. I wanted to be the center of your universe, like you were mine.”

“And now?” Harry asked, feeling numb and cold and wishing for nothing more than to disappear and hide under his bed. Hide, with a good story that he could be absorbed in, and ignore the world. He wasn’t sure of what was happening between him and Truls, but he was afraid, and strangely hurt, and he didn’t know what he ought to do about any of it. It didn’t help that Truls seemed just as lost as he was.

“Now, there’s still you,” Truls replied, shrugging. “But there’s also a whole world beyond you.”

The two fell silent for a moment, and Harry fought the urge to be sick. He desperately tried to think of something to say; anything that would make the situation better. In the end he sighed, and shook his head. “I knew… Well, _feared_ , that when the life debt would be erased, you’d… that we’d no longer be the same,” Harry said, hoping to not sound as tearful as he felt. Truls nodded – he knew that. After all, Harry had made him swear an oath of secrecy just in case. He wouldn’t have done that if he had expected nothing to change.

“Not the same is not a bad thing,” Truls told him, and raised his hand to touch Harry’s cheek lightly with his fingertips, turning Harry’s face towards him. “It just means we have a lot of things to figure out. I told you – I care about you. That is not going to change, with or without the life debt.”

Harry mustered up a smile, and nodded. He couldn’t help but feel, however, that something wasn’t right. There had been a strange fluctuation in Truls’s behaviour since the life debt had been erased, and Harry wasn’t sure what that meant. There were moments when his friend was, just like now, gentle and sweet. There were light touches and a few small smiles. And then, more and more often, there were moments when he looked at Harry like a stranger.

It was… alarming. And no matter what Truls said, Harry _knew_ that more had changed than what the other boy thought. The question remained, however: what to do about the situation?

Harry hated himself – just a little bit – for the faint feeling of regret he had. Having let the life debt remain would have kept things as they were, no matter how wrong it was. Now, Harry was left with a friend he might lose due something neither of them had any power over, really.

Worst of all, for Harry, there was also a decision to be made.

With the kind of life he had, the ambitions he held, and the people he associated with… did he have any right to hold on to Truls and drag the other boy with him into all that danger? Should he just… let go, and hope for the best, or should he look into the impact of life debt on them? Harry cared about Truls, and he had gotten used to having Truls there for him, but did he have any right to count on that?

Especially now, when Truls wasn’t as invested in him anymore?

*

Harry wasn’t avoiding anyone. He just… had something to do at the library. Early in the morning. _Very_ early in the morning. He had plenty of homework to do – assignments he wanted to get done now, well in advance, rather than rush them later on when he’d be distracted even _more_ by the tournament. The only good thing about immersing himself in homework, the quest to find his “niche”, and Hermione’s suggestion, was that it helped him push thoughts of Truls aside. Who had time to sort out complicated relationships, when there was an entire foot-long essay on sentient fungi to be written?

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when someone set a napkin, a cup of coffee, and two muffins in front of him.

“You skipped breakfast,” Mette said, sitting down next to him. Harry quickly glanced around them, fearing to see the librarian anywhere nearby. Were they allowed to bring food into the library?

“I came to read before the breakfast started,” Harry replied. “And then I just forgot about it.”

“What’s on your mind, then?” the witch asked. “Because no homework should keep you too busy to eat.”

“Noth—“

“Is it’s whatever is going on with you and your boyfriend?”

Harry hastily stuffed his mouth with one of the muffins, in a sad attempt to delay the inevitable discussion. He knew that if he told Mette that he didn’t want to talk about this, she’d accept it and let him be, but…perhaps talking was… good?

“I hope you won’t tell anyone about this,” Harry said after he had finished one of the muffins. “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, really. But it’s just. It’s private. I guess?”

“All right,” Mette said with a nod, and flicked her wand to cast a privacy charm on them. “Go on.”

“Years ago I saved Truls’s life,” Harry started, hesitantly and quietly. “The life debt… we didn’t know what it’d do, you see. So we just let it be. Eventually, though, it kind of… festered.”

“Festered,” Mette repeated, her voice wary.

“Something like that,” Harry sighed, nodding. “His feelings… what I was told was that the feelings he had, they were… the life debt amplified them tenfold. Or something along those lines.”

“Oh,” Mette gasped softly, her eyes widening in realization. “I see. Oh, Merlin, _that’s_ why you’ve been so uncomfortable. And I can’t imagine our teasing helped. Sweet Circe, what a mess. Did something change, now? Is that what the fight is about?”

“We’re not fighting,” Harry said, hunching his shoulders in discomfort. “During the New Year, I – don’t ask me how – got rid of the life debt. And he… I mean, I _understand_ , you know? From his perspective, a life debt he got trapped into was making him feel things he didn’t really… feel. Who knows how different his life would be now, if he hadn’t been forced to care so much about me. So now… we… he needs a break. From me. He didn’t outright say it, but…”

“Oh, no, I understand,” Mette assured him, frowning with a concerned face. “And you’re feeling lost and lonely? Heartbroken?”

“Not exactly,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “I’m feeling lost. I don’t want him to leave me. I’m scared.”

“Can I ask you,” Mette started, leaning closer to the younger boy, “what are your feelings towards him?”

“We’re close friends,” Harry said, thinking of how safe and happy Truls made him feel. The thoughts of how suffocating his presence had been sometimes, he pushed aside. “He cares about me the most.”

“Hmm.” Mette pursed her lips for a moment, before asking him: “Do you like kissing him?”

Harry’s eyes bulged at the unexpected question, and he flushed red. “No! Yes! I mean, I didn’t _hate_ it.”

“What about that ginger friend of yours, back in Durmstrang,” Mette said. “I’ve seen him kiss you once, last year. Do you like kissing _him_?”

“That’s Björn,” Harry hurried to say, thinking of the kissing practices he had done with the boy. “We just. It’s not… I mean, kissing is nice, but it’s not…”

“All right,” Mette said soothingly, before she continued: “What about the other friend of yours? The tall, angry German?”

And, _oh_. The thought of Clemens – tall and handsome, with thick arms and broad shoulders – kissing him made the feeling of _something_ hit Harry like a punch in the gut. He swallowed a few times, his face heating up. There was strange tightness in his chest, and his— he felt— Hot. Warm. “Um.”

“Yeah, there it is,” Mette said, and laughed. “Now, see… the question is, do you really like Truls, or do you just keep him around as a back-up? A safety net. It’s easy to… fall into the trap of keeping people who love you one-sidedly and desperately near. We all want to be loved. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

The words hurt, in some way, but it also made the world a bit clearer for Harry.

“I’m not going to say that I know much about love,” Mette told him. “But I’m beautiful, and people gravitate towards me. Some even think they’re in love. If I suddenly lost that, I think I’d be… upset, too. Removing the life debt has made it possible for Truls now to leave you. And, Harry, it’s not your fault. In fact, you did a very brave thing by breaking the life debt. But Truls _did_ go through a trauma. And if time away from you is what he needs to heal, then I think you should give him that.”

Oh, Merlin. That hurt even more. Who will he have left, if even Truls disappeared?

Well, he’d have Tom. But Tom wasn’t exactly… it wasn’t quite the same, was it? The Dark Lord couldn’t… he wasn’t the kind of a man who’d Harry be able to have in his life in the same way he thought he could have Truls: sharing simple moments without worrying about the world. With Tom it was adventures around the world and beyond the grave and drinking poisons, and—

And washing his hair in a quiet bathroom. Reading by the fireplace while eating something sweet.

And if Tom was all Harry could have – not just as a mentor or a project, but as… someone. In his life. Someone he could share simple moments with, then… Then it was all the more important for Harry to win the tournament, wasn’t it? He had to win the third task, no matter what.

No. Matter. What.

*

Things got a bit better after that, though not enough for Harry to stop hiding in the library for hours upon hours. He and Truls had developed some sort of a wary balance, neither knowing how to fit together anymore, yet nowhere near willing to let the other go. Harry knew that the trauma he _knew_ Truls must have – because really, how could it not be a traumatic experience? – needed them to have plenty of distance between them. And yet… it felt… it felt odd.

The only thing Harry could do to feel halfway normal, was simply keep himself as busy as possible. Which was, admittedly, easy. Even after he had completed all the homework that had been assigned so far, there was plenty of training for him to do. He had even managed to reach out to Gildy and talk him into teaching Hermione a thing or two.

He was being productive, and Harry only wished that he could have been happy about it.

There was also the issue of preparation for the third task. He still hadn’t figured out how to find himself a Rebel, and time was going by _fast_. The third task was weighing on his mind even now, as he was making his way towards the library at half past six in the morning. At this point he wasn’t even sure _what_ he was looking for. There was nothing in the library that could lead him to a Rebel, surely.

“Harry,” a familiar, faint voice said behind him as he was crossing one of the open-window corridors. Harry turned, already knowing who it would be, and saw Luna standing there. The sight of her made him feel slightly less tense – she tended to have that effect on him, for some reason. There was a sheen of dew on her, and she looked pretty in the morning mist, with a pair of pink sunglasses on her nose and her hair a cloud of pale curls around her face. “You’re gloomy again.”

“I reckon I’ve got a reason to be,” Harry replied, the smile on his face appearing with unexpected sincerity. “Why are you up so early?”

“I wanted to see you,” Luna said, walking towards him, and then slipping one of her cold hands into his pocket. “You always wander around at strange hours, so I thought I’d catch you on one. How have you been?”

“As well as one could imagine of anyone in my situation,” Harry said evasively. “I was on my way to the library.”

“You’ve been spending plenty of time there lately.”

“It’s a good place to be.” Even if it didn’t have all the answers he needed.

“There could be better places,” Luna told him. “Do you know what the third task could be?”

“No,” Harry lied. “But… there’s something I want to do to prepare, and in order to do that, I need to find someone.”

“Who?”

 _‘I don’t know that yet,’_ Harry thought, and shrugged. “It’s all right. I don’t want to bother you with the details.” Even if he wanted to, he really couldn’t. How could he locate someone he didn’t know? Theoretically, he could just… stumble around in hopes of finding a camp or something. Dueling a whole camp of Rebels would surely impress Tom.

“It’s all right,” Luna said. “We can go to the library. I can be quiet if you need to think.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, already distracted by his own thoughts. Somehow taking on a whole camp would certainly be impressive. But. _Really_. Harry wasn’t going to even consider that. Not seriously. No, he’d be better off just focusing on finding one target that he could handle. He didn’t know how to go about it quite _yet_ , but that’s what he’d do. Because, _Merlin_ , he wasn’t delusional enough about his own skills in dueling to think that he could actually take down more than one Rebel at once.

If he could down even _one_ Rebel, that was. Harry wasn’t too confident about that either. Merlin, he needed to practice his dueling more, didn’t he? Or perhaps just throw caution into the wind and look into Hermione’s advice regarding finding his niche. Whatever he’d do, he needed to find a Rebel and be able to defeat them.

 _‘But which one?’_ the boy thought, as he walked with Luna towards the library. _‘Is that what I should start with? If I could get access to a list of known and wanted Rebels, I could pick one, and look for them.’_ Would _that_ be impressive to Tom? It depended on which Rebel Harry would find, presumably.

So he’d have to pick one from the most wanted list. But what if Delacour did the same? It wasn’t as if Harry’s idea was particularly unique or unexpected. If Delacour, who was probably better than him at everything, and was very attractive and impressive and older and more mature than him – all traits that were upsetting in a very strange way to Harry – was aiming for the most wanted… then…

She’d end up picking the most wanted Rebel, for sure. And that would leave Harry with the choice of either settling for the second most wanted – which would surely diminish his points, especially in Tom’s eyes – or fight Delacour as well as the Rebel. And that was something Harry was determined to _not_ do. Not unless he absolutely had to, and was attacked by Delacour first.

 _‘But what if she isn’t going to go for the list?’_ Harry thought then. Could he take that risk?

No. He couldn’t. _However_ … what if the Rebel he aimed for _wasn’t_ on the list? What if it was someone that Delacour didn’t know was alive? Someone that Tom wanted desperately to find, but _couldn’t_. Wouldn’t _that_ be a victory unlike any other?

Harry knew who he wanted to find. It was just… a matter of, well… finding the Rebel in question that was bound to be tricky. He couldn’t ask Tom for help, could he? No, he needed to talk to Hermione. _She_ always had the best ideas. She’d be able to help him track down his target.

*

“There are many locator spells for different situations,” Hermione said. “But don’t you think that the Dark Lord has tried all of them, by now?”

The two of them were once again in the old hut outside, surrounded by piles of books and parchment, quills and ink bottles swirling around, looking for a safe place to land. Hermione had tied her thick, curly hair into a bun atop of her head, and was browsing though some of her notes while Harry told her of the third task and his plans regarding it, trusting her not to spread the word further.

“Then we need to come up with something else,” Harry said. “ _Anything_ else, to track him down.”

“Yes, we’ll need to do that _and_ work on your niche,” Hermione reminded him. “There’s no point in helping you find him if he’s just going to hurt you. Or worse, kill you!”

“I’ve been thinking of your suggestion regarding using that energy,” Harry said. “I want to try it, but I’m not sure when. I don’t want anyone else to know about it, and I can’t trust there to not be any wards that could signal something to Yaxley. Or worse – the Dark Lord.”

“You said that Headmaster Karkaroff is really pleased with you,” Hermione said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you ask him for a quick weekend leave on Friday, he’ll allow you to go home.”

“Perhaps,” Harry agreed, knowing that proceeding with the plan as it was, would mean disregarding all the caution that had kept him alive so far. He didn’t have any other options, however, and was willing to take the risk. Reluctantly. “I just… I don’t know. I’m scared.”

“I think it’d be stupid of you not to be scared,” Hermione said, before suddenly smiling at him brightly and reaching for her bag. “Oh! I just remembered… if it makes you feel even a bit happy, I’ve been in touch with a few muggle-born business owners. Most of them are in Knockturn Alley, of course, since only British purebloods are allowed to own businesses on the main street, but that doesn’t make them _bad_. Siraj Trunks produces amazingly sturdy trunks that are easy to shrink and carry – I wanted one, but it was too expensive. I was in touch with the owner, however, and he said that he’d be willing to sponsor you at any point—“ The witch paused to take a breath, and hand Harry a few folded papers she had retrieved from her bag.

The trunk in the picture seemed very… normal. It looked quite a lot like the trunk he already had, but with what appeared to be metal latches rather than leather straps. He looked up at Hermione, who kept smiling at him with a proud expression. Harry wasn’t exactly sure about switching trunks, but if it made Hermione happy and gave one of the muggle-born owned businesses some promotion, then why not?

“Thanks,” he said. “I think I could use it. I don’t know if I’ll get access to any of the basic amenities, and—“

“That’s a whole house, you know,” Hermione interrupted, clearly unable to contain her excitement. “You didn’t read that part, did you? Siraj specialized in trunks that, when you go into them, turn into actual houses. You can have your own library there. And, well, everything else.”

“Even a training ground?” Harry asked, suddenly interested. He’d still have to practice developing his niche at home, but for future reference… wouldn’t having a trunk like that solve plenty of his problems? “Merlin, think of the possibilities!”

“Exactly!” Hermione shrieked, giving in to her excitement. “Such exciting magic, isn’t it?”

“Speaking of exciting magic,” Harry said suddenly, “how’s everything going on with, uh…”

“Professor Lockhart?” Hermione finished for him, and smiled brightly again. “Oh, Harry, he’s brilliant! Thank you so much for recommending me! You know, he agreed with the need to get you some sponsorships – not that I told him why we’d want them, of course. He said it’d make you appear more professional, which is also a good thing, I suppose.”

“Has he taught you any spells yet?” Harry wanted to know, thinking of the memory charm. “Or is it too early to ask him?”

“It’s a bit too early,” Hermione said with a grimace. “But I was thinking of rereading all of his books – especially Waltzing with Wendigos, where he uses that spell a lot – and ask him to teach me it, as if I was inspired by his adventures. I’ll try to get that done as soon as possible.”

“Great,” Harry said, nodding. And then, in an effort to be as productive as his friend, he said: “And I’ll go today to ask Karkaroff about going home on the weekend.”

Hermione looked at him for a moment, with a very serious expression, before she nodded slowly. “Yes, I think you need to do that as soon as possible. Just to know if it’s even a viable option. I mean, my hypothesis says that it is, but there’s no knowing without trying it out first.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a sigh. He thought about Delacour again, and felt a touch of unease at the pit of his stomach. He could bet _anything_ that unlike him, she knew already what she was going to do in order to get the best points. “I can’t wait for this to be over.”

“I know,” Hermione said sympathetically. “If it’s worth anything, I think you’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and then thought about Tom. What would he need to do for _Tom_ to think that he was amazing? Would winning the tournament be enough?

What if Delacour did better?


	42. Chapter 42

If there was one thing that Harry could trust, it was Karkaroff’s hunger for success. Getting the man to not only allow Harry the freedom to go home for a weekend, but to also not inform anyone – Sirius included – of his whereabouts, took less than five minutes.

“I’m glad to see that your previous victories haven’t made you take the third task lightly,” Karkaroff said at the end of their brief discussion. “Remember, Mr. Potter, those who bring honour to Durmstrang will be allowed greater privileges. Leaving the premises like this is a privilege you have earned. You can still earn more. Good luck.”

_‘You can still earn more?’_ Harry thought, shaking his head as he left, wandering aimlessly in the corridors to kill time before dinner. _‘Did that mean that if I win this all, there’ll be… perks of some kind that I would get?’_ He doubted that – Karkaroff’s promises weren’t particularly reliable. In all likelihood it’d just mean more work for him, more responsibilities, and more things to worry about. He didn’t trust lucky breaks, such as unexpected privileges.

Karkaroff hadn’t offered him a portkey, and Harry wondered if the man had simply not thought of it, or if he had just deemed in unnecessary. Either way, Harry was glad that Tom had taught him how to apparate – not only long distances, but several times in a rapid sequence – despite his complaints at the time. Now, all he’d need to do was wait until Friday, before leaving for Hogsmeade, from where he could apparate home.

He wasn’t going to even pack a bag. Why would he? He was going _home_ , after all. Even if he hadn’t been there since— since James— For a very long time. Even if he hadn’t been there for a very long time. He wouldn’t need to pack anything.

Should he tell anyone that he was leaving? Should he tell Truls? Had their relationship been the way it was before the life debt had been severed, then Harry most certainly would have. But _now_? Now it felt more like a bold assumption on his part to think that Truls would care. Because no matter what Truls had said about still wanting to be his friend, Harry wasn’t sure if he could believe that. Harry wasn’t exactly a fun person to be with. Other people were just… better.

Harry had never really considered himself insecure. He just… he knew he didn’t really have much to offer as a person. He wasn’t the smartest, or the strongest, in his group of friends. He wasn’t particularly funny or cheerful either. He was just… he was just Harry. Harry with a plethora of problems, trying to somehow survive despite all the confusion and stress that was so heavily marking his life. And now that Truls no longer would see him as someone amazing and special, what reason did he have to stick around Harry? Wouldn’t it be easier to just find new friends? People who were easier to be around?

What if, when they went back to Durmstrang, Truls would… start hanging out with Nikolai, or something?

_‘I need to stop thinking about this,’_ Harry decided, taking a deep breath. _‘I need to focus on one thing at a time, and get them all done. First, finding that niche of mine. Second, finding my target. Third, winning the tournament. I’ll keep worrying about Truls after everything is over.’_

He wasn’t worried about sneaking out without alerting his peers from Durmstrang. Not needing to take any bags with him, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to think that he was leaving for a few days, even if they saw him exiting the school grounds. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was going to stay at home for a long time. People likely won’t even notice that he was gone. And even if they did, well, he had Karkaroff’s permission.

_‘I do need to make a plan for my stay there,’_ Harry thought, then. _‘All I have is an idea – not even mine, but Hermione’s – about somehow taking hold of that energy and using it.’_ He wasn’t worried about whether or not he could do it. He could tell the difference between _that energy_ and everything else. What worried him was that he didn’t know what would happen.

Or rather: what if nothing happened?

He could still try his best to track down his target and make the battle impressive. It was just that… Tom wasn’t an easily impressed man. And yet _Delacour_ had stood out to him. Harry wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much, only that he really, really, _really_ didn’t like it. Delacour was older than him, and likely better trained as well. Unlike Harry, she had kept her composure even in tough situations. Merlin, if he could just… be a bit more like her.

_‘Perhaps not,’_ Harry then thought, remembering the cruelty that the witch had displayed during the tasks. _‘I don’t think I could… I… not like that. Not the way she did it.’_ He just hoped that cruelty wasn’t the thing that Tom respected in her. Because if it was, then Harry really had nothing to compete with.

“Harry Potter, is it,” a feminine voice he didn’t recognize called, startling him out of his thoughts. Harry looked up to see a witch standing in front of him in the corridor. Sylvia Nott gave him a smile that showed the dimples on her cheeks, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes spoke of nothing but sincere friendliness. Harry knew better than to trust any of it. Wasn’t this the girl Anthony Lestrange was allegedly in love with?

“Yes,” he said, wary. An hour before dinner, the corridors were mostly empty. He didn’t think she would have approached him if there had been more people around. “Can I help you?”

“As I’m sure Erling has already told you,” the witch said, referring to Mette. “I am Sylvia Nott. I’m one of the sponsors of the Triwizard Tournament, and I wanted to introduce myself to the most successful competitor so far.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure what else to say, really. “That’s nice?”

A shadow of a smile appeared again on Nott’s face, and she took a step closer. “You are a good wizard, Mr. Potter, but you are not a politician.”

“I’m not involved in politics,” Harry instantly replied. The witch shook her head, and sighed.

“You are. _Of course_ you are. You’re from Durmstrang, the son of a pureblood with an adequate inheritance, and the most likely champion of the Triwizard Tournament. And best of all – you’re an orphan, with a godfather who doesn’t appear to be particularly concerned about you.”

Merlin, Harry hated everything that had led him into this situation. Besides, he didn’t appreciate any of what Silvia Nott had just said. _‘Not that I can do much about it,’_ Harry thought, remembering the things Mette had told him about this particular Nott. “Either way, I’m trying to stay out of it all.”

“I’m not here to threaten you or make you feel uncomfortable,” Nott said, though they both knew that the words meant nothing. Harry was already uncomfortable. “I know that people like you would rather be faced with the truth, so that’s what I’ll offer you. There are… words to be had… about certain people, working hard behind the scenes, to make sure they gain custody of you the moment they succeed in making Black appear unfit to be your guardian.”

“Why would you offer me anything?” Harry asked, this unexpected new disaster making the pit of his stomach clench painfully. Merlin, what was he going to _do_ —

“Consider it social investment,” Nott replied, still smiling pleasantly. “I’ll make sure you end up either with your godfather – or even emancipated, if you’d like. But I want something in return.”

Did he have any choice, really? Harry looked at the witch and nodded slowly. “Tell me what is it that you want, first, and then I’ll consider it. I can make you no promises, but I will consider what you say.”

Circe, he wanted out and away from here. He couldn’t _wait_ for Friday to come.

*

Eventually, Friday arrived.

Going back to the Potter Manor was... different. It was odd to be there and be so aware of the fact that he was the only one walking those halls. The sole ownership of his family home felt heavy, and the countless rooms he knew now to be empty bothered him more than they had ever before. The whole place was dark and silent. Sirius had clearly done… _something_ over here. The furniture was covered with white sheets charmed to preserve it all, and no house-elf was in sight. Harry was well and truly alone.

He was quiet, despite there being no need for such silence: even if he screamed, no one would hear him. The stairs didn’t creak when he walked upstairs, and headed to his room. Or, well, the room that had always been his. Technically, they were all his now. The furniture there had been covered as well, but the protective spells were easy for him to wave off. His books were untouched, familiar stories waiting for him, ready to take him somewhere safer, where the adventures weren’t his to deal with.

Circe, he was tempted.

Rather than take one of the books, Harry sat down on his bed, feeling a heaviness in his body that had become regrettably familiar by now. And yet, despite the heaviness and the melancholy, there was also a sense of clarity, slowly surfacing and taking over him like a blanket. It was easier to distance himself from hurt feelings and a sense of fear when he was _here_.

Breathing in. Breathing out. His heartbeat was steady, and for once he felt… almost calm.

Before Monday, he’d have to pull two miracles: the first was to find his niche of magic and weaponize it, and the second was to somehow do what the Dark Lord hasn’t been able to: locate Regulus Black. Harry wasn’t a miracle-maker. He wasn’t one of those people who could make amazing things happen. Everything about him that others admired had been a result of something he hadn’t had a choice in. His ability to converse with the dead, the events that had followed, and the people that had gravitated towards him. Even Truls had been pushed by the life debt. The championship, too – he had been recommended by Tom, hadn’t he? And Harry’s value to Tom lied in his ability to go to the train station.

It was as if there were two Harrys. One that everyone else saw: a special wizard with a list of friends and achievements, and a bright future as a Death Eater of high rank. And then there was the Harry that he knew he was. Just him, a boy with nothing that he could hold truly dear anymore. He felt now more alone than ever.

And that was why he needed to make these miracles happen _now_. Because they would be the fruits of his efforts. These two miracles would his choices to make – he could enter the third task with another plan, but no. He chose _this_ plan, and he was going to make it happen.

Harry took a deep breath, and allowed himself to sl _ide into the train station, and then retu_ rn within the same breath. It was strange, being able to come and go so easily, with such control. It was stranger still, to go there with no one to meet or to look for, and only for a fraction of a moment. He did it a few times, the energy building inside him easy to identify, but slightly harder to get a hold of. The change between his room and the station – the cold and wind and rain, and then the quiet dry warmth of his bedroom – was surprisingly jarring when experienced so many times in a row.

It didn’t help that thoughts of Regulus Black, and how to find him, were distracting him. There was no point in asking Sirius for his blood to perform any rituals for discovering locations of family members. The Dark Lord had likely already done that, and even if he hadn’t, Harry didn’t want to give anything away by asking Sirius for help.

_‘Don’t think of that now,’_ Harry thought to himself, taking a deep breath, sitting up straight with his wand in hand. _‘Don’t lose focus.’_

He did it again. And again. And again. Each time improving his hold on the energy building up inside of him. He didn’t take breaks, and there was no one to tell him to, either. Harry sat for hours on his bed, mustering up all the desperation and hope he had, knowing that if he could get _this one thing right_ , it could perhaps make his future a bit easier to handle.

Just. Finding his niche. His own little corner in magic, something only _he_ could do. Something that no one could take away from him. A sprout, if not a branch, of magic that he could cherish as his own.

He could _tell_ , the moment he got the… the _right_ kind of grip on it. The energy that had been there, but so hard to grasp, was almost solid under his hands, before it swam somewhere under his fingernails and up his arms. Harry dropped his wand and held his palms open, feeling suddenly so full of _something_ — a feeling so overwhelming it almost made him burst into tears.

Instead, what he did, was look at a lamp on his desk with a _lumos_ already on his lips, before his gaze slid to a small framed picture of his mother. The Lily in the picture was smiling at him, tying her hair into a braid and then untying it again, repeating the action in an endless loop of movement. Harry searched for words to say, any words that would help the unknown spell out. Nothing came to mind, and when the pressure grew too much, all he could do was look at his mother’s picture and whisper: “ _Please_.”

Lily’s picture froze for a second, her eyes in the picture glazing over for a moment, before turning to him in pure revulsion. A moment later they glazed over again, seeing nothing anymore. Harry looked at it, his heart heavy and hammering fast in his chest, feeling like the word had suddenly shifted on its axis, and that something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

And then the picture screamed.

*

Fuck. Circe smite him, what had he _done_?

Lily was still screaming. He didn’t know how to stop it. The walls were strange, the floor wasn’t straight anymore, and nothing made sense. There was a strange… well, not odour, but _something_ , in the air. Harry stumbled out of his room, his ears ringing, and fell on his knees somewhere between his room and the stairs.

He could hear a loud, wheezing sound, and was vaguely aware of it being him trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible. He was sure his heart would explode with the pressure building inside of him. His magic and the energy that he had summoned were mingling inside of him, making him feel hot and sick. He was barely aware of himself as he hastily took off his clothes, finding brief relief in the coldness of the floor.

And yet… under all the panic, there was also a feeling of _stillness_. A corner of his mind was… standing aside. Detached. He latched onto that part of him with all the strength he had left, and clung to it, closing his eyes, as his magic raged around him.

Harry didn’t notice when the cold began sinking into him, burrowing into his bones like it had never before. He didn’t notice that the heat he had felt was gone, not until he was shivering instead. His thoughts, jumbled as they were, did nothing but give him a headache. Eventually, Harry gave up any attempts to stand up or move, and lied there on the floor, shaking, scared and confused by what had just happened.

He… he was afraid of having done something he couldn’t reverse.

Despite this, he found comfort in the determination he had had earlier. He couldn’t afford regrets if he wanted to do what he knew he had to. No matter what the results of this ended up being, Harry knew that he really had nothing else to do but to push forward. He wasn’t going to lose to Delacour, or to anyone else, for that matter. And if Truls didn’t want him anymore, then, _fine_. Harry was fine, and he didn’t need _anyone_ , anyway.

This time, when the tears came, Harry did nothing to hold them back. He was too tired to not cry. He remained lying down on that same hallway he had walked through for so many years as a child, his bare back against the polished wood, shivering from a cold he didn’t know the source of, and cried. Big, loud, heaving sobs. Because, _Circe_ , he was tired. What had gone so _wrong_ about him, that had made him live a life like this? Where were his parents? Why didn’t he have an easy life like Ron and Draco did?

Merlin, why was _this_ his life?

*

When Harry snapped out of his— whatever _that_ had been— he wasn’t sure what time it was. He felt exhausted, but simultaneously as if he had just woken up from a long nap. Not that he hadn’t _already_ been disoriented, but everything felt… strangely isolated from the world. It would be so easy to just… hide at home, and forget about the tournament and everything.

_Lily had stopped screaming. Harry couldn’t remember when that had happened._

But he couldn’t do that. He needed to get himself back on his feet, and find out how much time he still had left before he’d need to go back to Hogwarts. No matter how his body ached and his head spun, he couldn’t afford wasting any more time than what had already been spent lying down.

Standing up required more effort than he had expected, and though hungry, Harry didn’t have enough energy to go out and buy anything to eat. Not yet. Not when there was a strange thrum inside of him, as if his magic was _humming_. The energy he had called earlier was somewhere there, entangled into his magic now, and Harry wasn’t sure what _that_ could possibly mean. Would Hermione know?

_Why had Lily screamed? Pictures didn’t— they weren’t alive enough to scream. They weren’t like portraits._

Was this worth all the trouble? Was he going to… be better than Delacour, now? Harry didn’t know. He didn’t even know what had happened, what was going on. If this was him finding his niche, then Merlin, it certainly wasn’t enough. He had found… _something_. Something he didn’t even know how to use. The energy clearly wasn’t just… _energy_. It was some sort of magic, Harry could feel that well enough now. But it wasn’t…it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the way magic usually felt.

_It didn’t work the way magic did either. What about it had made Lily scream? What could possibly be so wrong about it—_

It didn’t feel _bad_ , really. It was, in a way, similar to the feeling he’d get when standing in the train station. Perhaps more like how that felt before, years ago, when the air was still clear. He felt odd, and he was… he was afraid. Again. Funny, how fear never left him, it just changed and expanded. Now he was fearful of what he had done. Whatever this was… what were the consequences? He had taken a gamble, but unlike the time he drank the poison Tom had handed him, the risks now were unknown.

Merlin, he was cold. And tired. He had so much to do, and likely not enough time to do most of it. He still didn’t know how to find Regulus Black. He couldn’t afford

falling

asleep.

*

When Harry woke up, he was lying on the couch by the stairs, vaguely remembering somehow managing to get there on his own. He lied still for a few moments, his thoughts much clearer now than they had been earlier, and slowly sat up. He wasn’t injured. The weird thing about his magic was still there, but when he hesitantly cast a levitating charm on the shirt he had thrown aside earlier, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

A _tempus_ charm told him that it was now Sunday, a bit past three in the morning, and Circe – he had lost his entire Saturday. What had happened to him? What was that energy that he had so recklessly allowed into him?

_‘I don’t think I can undo it anymore,’_ Harry thought, looking down at his hands, before sighing heavily. The hallway was dark, and he was starting to shiver with the cold again. He was hungry, too, but didn’t know if he would find any place open at this hour to buy some food from.

Circe, he was a mess. How could anyone trust him to win any competitions or save the world or anything equally ridiculous, when a bit of unexpected magic disoriented him so much? He hadn’t managed to even feed himself yet, and he had lost a whole day without knowing _how_ exactly. Merlin, he’d never be this reckless again. What if he ended up accidentally killing himself?

_‘Would that be a bad thing?’_ The thought flickered through his mind fast, and was gone before Harry had even fully realized that it was there. In the darkness of the hallway, and the silence and solitude of his world right now, the thought didn’t bother him enough to make him think of it further. Instead, Harry kept leaning back on the couch again, knowing that there was no one around who’d tell him to go to his room or seek a more comfortable place in the house.

Not even a Merlin-forsaken house-elf.

_‘I need to do something. Anything,’_ Harry thought then. _‘I can’t let this stop me.’_ He couldn’t allow his old – and new – worries and fears hold him back. When Tom was his age… had _he_ held himself back just because he was _afraid_? Unlikely. Harry doubted that anything had ever held that bastard back. He just… people didn’t achieve the things the Dark Lord had by being hesitant and allowing things to stand in their way.

_‘I need to be more like that,’_ Harry thought, and lifted his hand, feeling the energy intensify around his fingertips. He needed to be more like Tom, and the first step to achieving that was to throw caution aside, once more, and dive into experimenting on... whatever this was. He couldn’t afford worrying about himself. What was the worst that could happen? Death?

The time was nearing four, now. Harry was fairly certain that bakeries in the area would begin opening their doors in a few hours. Meanwhile, he could shower, change his clothes, and think of what he’d do next. He’d need to return to Hogwarts on that very evening, and if he wanted to use the rest of his time wisely, he needed a plan.

*

It was freezing when he left his house at ten past seven in the morning. The air was crisp and clear, and without a warming charm, Harry was sure that he’d enjoy it a lot less. As it were, the early morning walk to the bakery, through the familiar roads of Godric’s Hollow, was exactly what he needed to feel a bit more like how he wanted to be, and less like the confused wreck he knew he was.

The closest bakery was one that Harry’s family had rarely visited. Lily hadn’t liked it. His sweet mother who’d defend society’s poor at the drop of a hat, didn’t like stepping into small, dingy shops frequented by the same poor folk. Harry didn’t have the desire to think more of that than he had to, and he didn’t dwell on the memories when he stepped into the bakery.

The woman standing behind the counter looked surprised, clearly not expecting to see anyone that early. After a few moments of curious staring, she smiled, dimples appearing on her round cheeks.

“Good morning,” she said warmly. “Fresh bread?”

“And some other pastries as well, I think,” Harry replied, mustering up a smile in return. “Good morning. Um, Mrs. Willis, was it?” Merlin, _sure_ , he hadn’t been in this particular bakery before, but he had walked past it enough times as a child that he ought to have known the woman’s name by now.

“Wilkins,” she corrected, letting out a short laugh. “Amy Wilkins. So, what has brought young Mister Potter here at this hour? Haven’t seen you in years. How is your father doing?” And, oh yeah, the downside of being a well-known, somewhat Pureblood family, in a small village – everyone knew the Potters in Godric’s Hollow, even if they weren’t really relevant elsewhere. It didn’t seem like the town knew everything, however, and Harry took a deep breath before he said:

“Well, um, he passed away last year,” Harry said, words heavy and clumsy in his mouth, an unexpected wave of shame causing him to break in cold sweat. “In a… there was… a mission. He… he passed away there. We couldn’t… there was no funeral held.”

“Oh, merciful Medusa,” Mrs. Wilkins gasped, clearly shocked by the news. At least now Harry knew that she didn’t read the Daily Prophet. It felt odd however, to talk about James, when his death had happened so long ago. “My dear boy, how are you holding up?”

“I’m keeping myself busy,” Harry replied with a shrug, not wishing to elaborate. “I’ll be going back to school tomorrow, and back to my studies. That’ll help.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Wilkins said with a look of pity on her face. Harry thought of James again, and resisted the urge to scratch his palm – and itch there was becoming increasingly distracting, and Harry couldn’t wait to be done with his purchase and leave the place.

He just. He really didn’t want to think of James. Not now.

*

He couldn’t stop thinking about James. Even when he sat alone in the dark kitchen, eating the food he had bought, thinking of going back to Hogwarts, he couldn’t completely push thoughts of his father aside. He had thought that he wasn’t angry anymore – not at James, or at Sirius for the way he had handled the aftermath. But every now and then, there were these… bursts of bone-deep anger. And he didn’t know what to do about them.

_‘At least Sirius is alive,’_ Harry thought, leaning back on his chair. Alive, but so distant he felt invisible. Did Sirius think that Harry didn’t need him anymore? Harry _did_ need him. He just… there so many things about Sirius that Harry didn’t know how to deal with. And while things such as Sirius’s evident dislike towards less fortunate creatures was disturbing, there was a bit of a difference between him _saying_ so, and him somehow locking countless of muggles into cages for _entertainment_.

No matter his flaws, James hadn’t had that… cruel streak. Harry knew that out of Lily, Sirius and James, James had been the… well… the one without prejudices like those of Lily and Sirius. In fact, had things done differently, Harry couldn’t help but hope that he could have confided in James about everything that was going on in his life. But then alcohol and depression had gotten the best of James – the best of them both, really, because while James suffered, Harry had failed to understand what he had been going through. But. If things had gone differently— If he had been more understanding. If he had confided in James earlier, perhaps—

Merlin, he _really_ missed his dad.

The bread tasted stale in his mouth when a sudden wave of cold washed over him, making Harry shudder. The energy inside of him was making his skin prickle, and before he had realized it, Harry had stood up. He walked past the few closest windows, and stopped at one that had been sealed shut a long time ago. He peered through the charmed glass, and didn’t realize what he was doing, until he had already been staring at his family graveyard for nearly ten minutes.

What was he doing?

Should he go there?

Harry wasn’t sure if there was merit to what he was about to do, but something inside of him made it seem reasonable. The energy that was intertwined and sunk into his magic by now, hummed and made him shiver once again. The warming charm that he renewed now didn’t keep him warm anymore.

Harry moved quietly away from the window, and headed towards the front door. His wand was in its holster on his arm, his soft boots not making a single sound as he walked. It was freezing outside still, and Harry could feel the wind, but the cold that was making him shiver didn’t seem to come from the outside. No, it came from _inside_ of him.

The graveyard was familiar, but it also appeared… different. Harry didn’t know what about it was different, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do there. The energy inside of him welled up, and without thinking much of it, Harry spread his hands, and let it go.

*

He knew now what that energy was. _Circe_ — he wished he hadn’t— he didn’t—

He knew now why Lily had screamed, and Merlin, he was _so sorry_ — he hadn’t _known_ that it. That. He hadn’t _known_ —

Why wasn’t there anything— Why was _nothing_ good in his life?

Why—

*

The skeletal arm that had pushed its way through a rotting coffin, and dug its way to the surface, lied still on the grave of a relative Harry had never known.

Slowly, it sank back into the soil, never quite making it back to where it used to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Other Chapter 36](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931810) by [Mavrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mavrick/pseuds/Mavrick)




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